


heavy is the head

by alisdas



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Kidnapping, Princess!Reader, Reader-Insert, Violence, rebel!steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:07:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: As the princess of the great lands west of the Indigo Sea, you were born with a burning loyalty to protect and serve your people. From war, from famine – from the rebels that terrorize your land. But when an ambush from said insurgents sees you kidnapped, you’re suddenly torn between service to your country and duty to your family – and, maybe, that odd little feeling that’s evoked by the terrifying men the rebels call Captain.
Relationships: Captain America/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 50
Kudos: 205





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> also available on my tumblr venusbarnes!

The winter months are long and cold. You are glad for the fires that roar in each room, for the warm food prepared every night and day. It’s been stews, stews, stews and more stews – you long for the hot summer months where your meals consist of hot bread and salads and fruits and cheeses and smoked meat, though you know in the summer you will yearn for the winter. 

Your father tells you that he has provided the kingdom and outlying villages with enough food to last two long frosts, but you can’t help but peer out of your window when your books don’t hold your attention. It is _cold_. The days are cold, and the nights are colder. Most crops shrivel and wither during these months, so every soul is depending on grains and vegetables stored from the summer. 

On the fourth sennight of winter, your father draws you into the throne room where he and your mother await. The throne room had always been your favourite room when you were a child; long and wide, with marble floors and a long velvet carpet that led to the dais where three thrones proudly stood; one, grandly encrusted with gems and red velvet. Another of the same size sat beside it, engraved with gold and filigree and ruby studs. And the third, smaller than the other two, wrapped in golden vines and gilded flowers. 

Behind the dais is a window that stretches from floor to ceiling, with a view of the sea in all its mysterious wonder. If one was brave enough to step on the ledge and peek their head out, they could see the kingdom spread out to the right. You knew from experience – and many nights locked in your room as a result.

Your father reveals that he’s made plans to send you and your mother to your eastern home by the Indigo Sea – so far east, in fact, that winter’s breath doesn’t reach it. It’s warmer. 

_And safer_ , your mind reminds you. Because that’s what this hasty getaway is for, isn’t it? The rebels. 

You haven’t had the misfortune of encountering them, but you’ve seen the battalions of soldiers that have returned from fighting them. Bruised, bloodied, spirits broken. They look as if they’ve fought an entire army, and very nearly lost. 

The rebels are a tyrannical, violent people whose sole purpose is to see your family removed from the throne. Led by one man only known as the Captain, they terrorise villages and murder mercilessly. Your father told you of the houses and crops they burned down, the public displays of terror that had one message and one message only; they’d see your father’s throat slit and your mother exiled. As for you…

Your father told you what they did to young girls like you. 

The rebels had been an ever-present force ever since you were a girl. You’d never known true, delicious freedom – no frolicking in the streets and no long journeys bar the leisurely trips occasionally taken to your eastern home. You grew up hearing tales of the barbarians hiding in the shadows, of the bloodthirsty warriors who worshipped death – but the rebellion had never truly been serious enough to send you away.

Here you are, though, sitting opposite your mother with your respective handmaidens beside you, dressed in your finest winter gown that really does _nothing_ for you in the cold.

The carriage you ride in is surrounded by what could possibly be a small army. Many would think it unnecessary but the road you travel down is treacherous in this weather. Wide, with thick forest on either side. _Perfect for an ambush_ , you think to yourself. Any book on strategy could tell even a fool that.

The blanket of night doesn’t help, either, but your father thought it best for your transport to be as covert as was allowed, even if risk was increased. Only the people present and himself knew of the specific road you’d take and the time you’d take it, though it does little to calm your nerves.

The curtains are drawn, but you can almost _feel_ the snowfall outside. You don’t know how far you’ve travelled, or how far you have left to travel – it could be minutes or hours spent in these four gilded walls with nothing to entertain you. One thing you do know, however, is that when the carriage jolts and shudders and stops in its tracks with no warning, something is wrong. 

The silence that fills the space is, for lack of better wording, deafening. And then there’s rustling outside, and you lean forward in your seat, heart thudding in your chest and breath beginning to shake. You’re waiting for a sign – something, anything. A shout, a cry, some reassurance from the men sworn by sword and life to protect you. 

Your mother and handmaiden exchange looks of equal fear, and you have no doubt you look the same, sitting stock still and ears poised towards the door, waiting, waiting, _waiting_ … 

“ _Rebels_!" 

And just like that, all hell breaks loose. The door is wrenched open, and you barely recognize the proud gold insignia of your family in the low light before you’re all pulled from inside. The thud of hooves against the dirt and shouts and bayonet shots mix into a cacophony of sounds that make your ears ring. You feel like you’re suffocating in the cold sting of the night. 

"This way, Your Majesty!” The gruff voice of the soldier is the only thing that permeates the wall of sound, and so that is what you focus on. You hoist your skirt up and desperately continue after him, trudging through the thick snow, but you can’t help the glance you cast over your shoulder as you flee to the treeline; men, dozens of them on horseback, carrying torches and bayonets and striking down your men like they were bred to do so.

“Natalia!” You gasp, scream caught in your throat as your handmaiden is suddenly taken roughly by a rebel man, slung upon his horse as he rides past. She yells, kicks, bucks and wriggles, but he barely spares her a glance and continues wreaking havoc on your soldiers. “ _Nat–Natalia–_!" 

And then your mother’s handmaiden, a girl only a few years older than you, is struck down with the butt of a bayonet. 

You don’t realise you’re crying out, sobbing, until the soldier grasps your wrist and tugs you along. "We’ve got to get ya back t’ the palace, missus.”

Your large embroidered skirt and laced corset are not fit for running through the forest, especially at night and _especially_ when it’s been snowing; twigs and branches snag at the fabric, scraping your face and arms, but you can’t stop. You hear _them_ running after you, their yells in the distance. If you squint and peek over your shoulder, you can see the dull glow of their torches. They’re gaining on you, _they’re gaining on you_ , and your chest feels like it might cave in and crush your lungs if your panic continues to rise. Maybe you’re still crying, maybe you’re not – you can’t think straight enough to tell. 

Your mother gives a sudden cry of pain and tumbles to the ground, and the soldier is crowding around her, hand on her leg, cursing under his breath. He props her up against the trunk of an old oak tree, and busies himself with ripping fabric from his shirt to bind her ankle.

“Will she be okay?” You cry, sniffling, glancing over your shoulder. They’re getting closer, closer, closer, and a strong cloud of dread drifts over your head. “ _Please_ , will she be okay?" 

"She won’t be able t’ walk quick enough,” the soldier says, and your mother sobs. She knows her fate. If she can’t walk – _flee_ –, and the rebels close in… “‘Nd we won’t be able t’ travel fast enough with the rate they’re gainin’ on us–" 

But her fate does not have to be set in stone. Not if you have anything to do with it. 

"I will go,” you say shakily, rubbing your weeping nose with the back of your palm. In a sickly humorous way, you think of what your governess would say if she saw you like this — dress torn and muddied and wet from snow, hair a frizzy, disheveled mess, face puffy and flushed with tears and cold alike. Not the image of a princess one would expect. Not the image of a princess you’ve been taught to be, evidently, though appearances don’t quite matter now. “I will lead them away.”

“ _No–_!" 

"You can’t, m'lady–!" 

"No! I will go,” you argue, kneeling down beside your mother and seizing her hands in yours. “You are the Queen. Father cannot rule without you–”

“And you are my daughter,” your mother answers, face contorted in pain. You’ve never seen her quite so undone, though you suppose you’re a mirror image. “I can’t let you sacrifice yourself–" 

"I will go–” The soldier begins. 

“You can’t!” You cry, grasping his face in your hands. “Please, listen to me. You are the only one who knows the way back to the palace. If you go we will _both_ be eventually caught, do you hear me?”

“I–I–”

_“Find 'em! We want them alive, lads!"_

You’re sobbing at this point. You’re scared, and cold, and your limbs are so weak from anxiety that you’re afraid you won’t be able to stand back up. But you do, _you do,_ and you kiss your mother on the forehead once more before running back the way you came. You don’t look back to see if they’ve begun to hobble away. You’d turn on your heels and join them if you saw them once more, you’re sure of it, so you simply continue running.

The rebels come into view minutes later, all on their horses and wrapped in furs. In all your years, you’ve never seen anything more frightening; they stand like a massive wall, blocking out even the sky above with their torches. Their faces are fierce and determined, teeth bared and eyes focused. They are… terrifying, in every sense of the word. 

What must be fight or flight kicks in; you give a shuddering gasp, and begin to run east. 

The snow is biting at your toes. Your fingers and cheeks are numb. Your throat, raw with exertion and cold, and yet, you can’t stop sobbing, can’t stop panting. You don’t know how long you run for before it feels as if their horses are right at your ankles; but before they can scoop you up, you burst into a foggy clearing, feet slipping from underneath you and throwing you into the shocking cold. 

Gasping for breath and teeth chattering, the rebels begin to circle you with their horses. Crowded on the floor, the night sky disappearing beneath their large, monstrous forms, your heart has never beat quite so quickly. You can barely catch your breath, eyes flitting about nervously, hands clutching at your wet dress. 

"It’s the princess!” One calls, looking behind him. “What’ll we do with 'er?" 

"Please,” you sob, chest tightening, “Please, _please_ , I don't–" 

The men split in one area to let another in; a horse as black as night, almost twice your size, carries a man equally as imposing. There is no doubt in your mind that this is the one who they call _Captain_. 

His jaw clenches at the sight of you, disgust in his eyes, and he nudges his horse back again. "Deal with her restraints. She’ll ride with me.”

No. No, no, _no–_!


	2. part 1

As instructed, they deal with you; bind your wrists with the roughest rope and tie a dirty strip of cloth around your eyes. They must decide that the sniffling, sobbing girl in front of them isn’t worth _too_ much trouble, because no more of that filthy cloth is shoved into your mouth to silence you. Once you’ve been adequately restrained you’re dragged along back through the trees until you reach what you assume is your ransacked carriage. You can hear them rummaging through the trunks you had taken with you, running their filthy hands over precious silk and satin– 

They congregate there now, surrounding their ‘Captain’ and hanging onto every word he spits. As you approach, a veil of sneers and laughs rise and spread over the air – at your tattered dress, your tangled hair, your tear-tracked face. You feel like an animal caged for viewing, but you _are_ , in a sickeningly dark way, glad that your eyes have been covered. Suddenly, you’re grasped by the hips and yanked upwards, and you cry out, kicking your legs.

“Calm down,” a gruff voice says behind you, too close behind you, and you realise with a start that you’re atop the Captain’s horse. The Captain is behind you, your back to his chest, his arms reaching around you to grasp the reins. You feel bile rise in your throat at your close proximity, and you have no doubt that were you to be placed on the ground again, your legs would be too weak to carry your weight. “Or I’ll _make_ you calm down, _Princess_.”

He says it like it’s a curse. You’ve never hated your title, but the way he spits it – like poison in his mouth – makes you shrink into yourself.

The ride lasts for hours, then. Without your sight, it lasts even longer. You’re jostled and pushed back and forth as the Captain’s horse gallops through the snow, face numb with the cold and fingers losing feeling. If you continue at this rate for much longer, you’ll be of more use to them dead than alive.

You don’t suppose the Captain is facing the problems you are; no, he and his rebels were bundled up in fur cloaks and leather armour. Surprisingly good quality fabrics for a group of tyrants. You, on the other hand, are still dressed in your cotton and silk and wool, tattered to pieces and quite literally hanging by multiple threads. The snow and cold will be your death – you’re sure that the Captain can feel your shivers and hear your chattering teeth even over the sound of his horse.

 _Though_ , some part of you thinks, _death will be favourable to what is to come._

After what feels like years the horses slow to a trot. You hear the far-off crackling of fire and the low hum of chatter and laughter, and your blood freezes over. There seems to be much, much more rebels than you had thought. Than your _father_ had thought. Your breathing quickens.

“It’s the Princess!” A voice suddenly cackles. “Look at 'er. Not so pretty now, eh?" 

The attention has successfully been drawn to you. Faceless voices leer at you from every direction, and for an ephemeral moment you’re _glad_ for the Captain’s firmness behind you. No matter how positively terrified you are of him, you can feel him, at least. He’s not a smoky, shifting shadow spitting obscenities at you. He’s remained quiet all throughout the ride to the rebel camp, save for shouting directions and warnings of the weather.

Your stomach turns. It is an utterly disgusting trick the gods must be playing on you. The _Captain_ , of all creatures, is where you feel _safest_. Though, he hadn’t had you beheaded on sight, so you’ll count what meagre blessings you’re afforded. 

The noise doesn’t cease as the horses come to a stop. If anything, it escalates, inflates, surrounds you from every which way. The Captain slips off the horse first, and you’re left shivering and shaking alone, unsure which way is up or down – until you too are lifted from horse and placed upon snowy, uneven ground. 

Hands are grappling at you. Tugging at your skirts, scratching your bare arms and neck, pulling your hair. You don’t know if you’re crying from fear or pain, if you’re whimpering or not, if your throat is closing up or if you’ve just forgotten how to breath. Your blindfold is still on, but you’re being pushed in every direction – where are you going? Maybe this is your punishment. Death by beating. The Captain will let his men kick and punch you to death. The slow, painful ending a monarch deserves. 

A firm hand grasps your shoulder, guiding you forward soundly. 

” _Stand down_ ,“ the Captain snaps. "Get the bloody hell back, Rumlow–" 

A few more seconds pass. The yelling and rough grasp of desperate fingers against your dress and skin and hair becomes so suffocating that you worry you’re on the brink of drowning in your own fear. The Captain’s hand is the only consistency – the only _clarity_ – you are offered, and you take it eagerly. You’d rather one horrid man over what felt like hundreds surrounding you.

There’s the sound of fabric being moved, and you can sense that you’ve been moved inside somewhere. The air is warmer, the shouts dimmer, and there’s the distinct smell of leather and dust. The snow no longer falls upon your shoulders, though it has left its mark upon you in the form of chattering teeth and purple lips. You stand uncertainly as the Captain and others move and shuffle around you, your hands shaking and breaths rapid. What will become of you now? 

You startle as the blindfold over your face is yanked roughly from your head, leaving you blind momentarily as light floods your eyes for the first time in hours. Blinking owlishly, you take in your surroundings. 

It’s a large tent, like the kind used by your army when they marched far north to the coldlands or during winter. The walls and floor are a patchwork of weather-worn leather and plain, dirtied canvas, the interior illuminated by candles and lanterns and fire grates. The space is scarcely furnished, save for a desk and chairs, and a large, carved table which seems to be the centrepiece of the room. 

This is how it was near impossible to find them, you realise. They were constantly on the move, never staying in one place long enough for your troops to find them. A nomadic army. Nowhere and everywhere at once. 

"Get the girl some furs,” the Captain says. He’s gathered around the table with five – no, six – other men, and he barely spares you an upward glance before beginning to converse in low mutters. The others are not so calm or collected – they sneak looks at you and don’t care if you see them or not. After all, your status means nothing here. _Respect_ for you means nothing here. Wait – furs? 

“Furs?” One man near the entrance snarls. He clearly shares your sentiment. He reaches out and snatches the arm of the woman who has scurried off to find you some. “For her? You’re joking." 

The Captain still doesn’t look up. "That’s what I said, isn’t it, Rumlow?”

Rumlow. This is the same man who had grabbed you just minutes before. The darkness and hatred in his eyes makes your stomach turn. 

“She’s the princess,” Rumlow hisses in return. “She doesn’t deserve any fucking furs!”

“Watch your mouth, Rumlow,” the man nearest the Captain says lowly. He’s got dark hair and blue eyes that glint dangerously in the low light.

“I won’t, Barnes. Her father is the reason why I’m here – why we’re _all_ here!”

“Have you forgotten yourself?” The Captain has finally raised his head. Although his voice is far below a shout it commands the room, and you find yourself glad that you’re not on the receiving end of both his words _and_ his eyes – which have narrowed into a nasty glare that you hoped could render even Rumlow speechless. 

He rises from his hunched over position on his forearms and steps towards Rumlow slowly. Your breath catches in your throat – you’ve never been in the presence of a man quite so… quietly threatening. He didn’t need noise and overconfidence to strike fear into the hearts of those around him. It was in the low curve of his brow and the downturned corners of his lips, the silent ripple of muscles beneath his furs and cotton, the slow but sure steps he takes. 

The Captain stops just inches from Rumlow, jaw tensed. 

“Do you remember who brought you here, soldier?" 

Rumlow’s lip curls the tiniest bit. 

"Yes, sir.”

“And do you remember whose orders you follow, soldier?" 

”…Yes, sir.“

The Captain nods slowly. Then, he peers over his shoulder and meets your eyes momentarily. You feel your entire body stiffen, but it seems he bears you no more ill will as of yet. He turns towards the table once more. 

"Furs. Now.”

The woman who had been restrained by Rumlow yanks her arm from his grasp with a huff and scurries off to find these furs that would hopefully stop your blood from _freezing_ in your arteries. With the Captain and company otherwise preoccupied with their strategizing, you’re left standing with only Rumlow’s frosty glare to keep you company. 

The weight of your situation clatters down onto your shoulders all too suddenly.

You would die in this place, surely. If not the ever-formidable Captain, then there were enough men in this camp that were eager to slit your throat. Or maybe you’d contract the Red Flu, bleeding from every orifice and your eyes turning cloudy blue. It seemed likely in this weather.

You didn’t want to die. Gods, you didn’t want to die. There was so much you’d yet to experience, foods left untasted, things left unsaid. You’d never even felt the touch of a man or woman before. You wanted to see your parents again. Your Natalia, what had happened to her? Have these savages taken her somewhere horrid?

“Here.” The woman who brings you your furs is pale and blonde, cheeks reddened from the nippy winds outside. She’s dressed modestly, the simple fabrics of a peasant. Still, she looks better off than you. You could do with a bath. And new clothes.

Years of etiquette classes push you to express your thanks but your nervousness is equal in measure. You don’t want to draw any attention to yourself, and so you take the furs silently. She rolls her eyes, exhaling sharply through her nose. 

You pay her no mind. You bundle up tightly, blowing hot air into your cold fingers. The furs do little to warm your legs but your chest and shoulders are covered and that’s all you need. And now you wait.

You would think that someone would restrain you or bring you to a holding cell of some sort. You had expected to be housed with the hounds, starved until you’d give them what information they sought. That’s what the old maidens said happened to any poor soul unfortunate enough to be captured by rebels – if you had even a modicum of luck you would find yourself a quick, painless death before they decided to interrogate and torture you.

Though all this waiting seems torture enough. You’re in enough pain as it is – legs aching from running, littered with scrapes and cuts, and your ankles are weak from when you had tripped and fallen. You fear you’re on the brink of collapsing – from time to time you find yourself swaying on your feet, too disoriented to gather your wits. Your whole body feels…heavy. You want to _sleep_ … You’re so weary, so confused and uncomfortable and anxious and unsure and _terrified_ , and this _waiting_ only serves to intensify it.

When you surface from your thoughts, you realise that the talking has come to a standstill. You glance up, uncertain whether you should risk making eye contact with anyone, and you find that every pair of eyes has already found its place on you. 

“She’s shivering,” one man says. He’s got dark skin and darker eyes, hair close shaven and body muscular and tall, like most of his companions. “And swaying on her feet.”

“We can see that, Samuel,” another man says. 

“But it’s _roasting_ in here,” Samuel replies. They don’t seem to care that you’re staring right at them as they speak about you, but their conversation does capture your attention. Shivering? You hadn’t noticed. You hadn’t felt it. 

“The ride was long,” the Captain murmurs, eyes trailing and narrowing over the rips in your dress and the cuts on your legs. “There were no overgarments to spare.”

Yet another man curses underneath his breath. “Gods, Steven, she’s no use if she catches her death!" He glances towards the woman who had brought you the furs, stood quietly in the corner of the room with her hands clasped and gaze lowered. "Take the girl to the infirmary, will you, love?" 

"O-of course, Sir Stark,” she says, and crosses the room quickly and yanks you outside at an equally as tiring pace. Your mind notes ambiguously how you can’t quite feel her grip on your arm. You’ve never been a healer but you have enough common sense to know that that’s worrying.

The camp has quietened now that time has passed and night has truly begun. As you stumble through the snow, you realise that the cold has affected you worse than you had thought. You feel tired, _too_ tired, like your limbs are tied to weights and your shoulders are topped by boulders. Your mind feels exhausted, too, and you can’t find it within yourself to focus on anything as the woman leads you to the infirmary. 

The white tent, with its medical flag flying proudly above it, comes into sight just as your eyes roll to the back of your head.

When you wake to a grimy khaki tent ceiling and not the polished white stone you are used to, it feels as if the happiness has been sucked out of your lungs and thrown into the air. You had thought – _hoped_ – that it was a bad dream. 

Blinking at the ceiling, you wiggle your fingers and toes, just to make sure they hadn’t fallen off with the frost. The cuts in your skin sting as they brush against scratchy sheets, and the _equally_ as scratchy clothing you’ve been put into. The thought of being changed by foreign hands in a place like this… you swallow bile, hands already shaking.

“Back to the land of the living, princess?” A voice says. You would have jumped had you the energy, but you have to settle for trailing your eyes to your left, where your presumed doctor stands. 

He is evidently the kindest man in this camp, you think. It shows on his face. Soft brown hair and eyes, a nervous smile, and what seems like a generally good disposition towards you. He didn’t murder you while you were sleeping at least, or leave you untreated. 

“Who’re you?” You ask throatily. “H-how long ‘ave I been…”

“Asleep?” The man asks. “A day and a half, at this point. I’m Banner – head physician.”

You stay silent. Your head feels like it’s been bashed in by a rock and your throat doesn’t feel much better. Every inch of your skin aches and shivers despite the blankets piled atop you, and your confusion and anxiety from earlier is seeping back into you at a slow, steady pace. 

“Hypothermia,” Banner says, fiddling with his glasses in his hands. “Unlucky, but not the worst you could catch in this weather. Red flu’s been going ‘round… Salve has been applied to your cuts and what not. Didn’t want them getting infected. Ankles were bruised, too…”

Hypothermia. That would explain why your voice is slurring like that of a drunk in a tavern. 

“…”

“Would you like some water?”

You _would_ , in fact, kill for some water, but you have queries and questions that are plaguing you. You don’t want to risk Banner’s kindness by showing insolence and ignoring him; he is, after all, the one person on this stretch of land that you have an iota of trust for – but this may be your only chance to have them answered.

“Where am I?” You murmur. 

“I… can’t tell you that exactly,” Banner replies, hesitant. “But you are housed in the rebel camp of Captain Steven Rogers.”

Captain Steven Rogers. He has a _name_. You don’t know why that takes you aback – perhaps because you’ve always seen him as the monster in your closet, the shadow at the end of the dark hallway. The thought that he has a family, a _life…_ You flounder for a few seconds.

“And why am I here?” 

Banner smiles softly, reaching for a skin of water by his side. “Here, drink. I’m not sure I can divulge that information with you either, princess.”

You gulp down the water greedily. It’s not very fresh, but it’s cold and brisk and that’s all you need. 

Banner may not be able to tell you why you’re here, but you’ve read enough books to know a bit about politically-fueled kidnappings. Maybe they intended to hold you hostage until your father relented – or perhaps they hoped you’d know something of your father’s dealings. They wouldn’t get what they wanted from you, either way. 

Your father treasured his kingdom over everything, even you. They could make even the smallest of demands and they’d face only a stoic wall of indifference – and you, well, you’ve had that same loyalty to your people instilled in your veins ever since you were a child. You were prepared to sacrifice yourself if your people would rest easier.

“Then… why are you helping me?” You ask. If your other questions cannot be answered, there must be a logical explanation for this one – a question that is perfectly appropriate for you to ask given your circumstances and yet, Banner looks _surprised_. “Why are you so kind? Offering me water and tending to my illnesses. I would have thought that my throat would be slit and my body cut into pieces by now." 

His eyes widen just a fraction, and for a second he seems at a loss for words. "We–we’re not savages, princess.”

“Not savages?” You repeat incredulously. Your breathing shortens, images flashing back and forth in your head: villages set alight by rebel men, grains raided and pillaged from innocents, women raped and men murdered and children stolen from their beds – and you want to tell him as much, throat tightening with the effort of restraining yourself. You can’t let your emotions surmount you, not now. It isn’t smart to allow it in a situation where you aren’t in control.

You merely hum instead, lips on the verge of curling. “Forgive me, Banner. Being held against my will to die, by the men who _attacked_ my mother and handmaidens as we were _travelling_ , has _obviously_ confounded me.”

The thought of your mother overwhelms you as soon as it surfaces. Gods, you hope she made it back to your father. And the handmaidens… you haven’t heard a whisper of them since you’ve arrived. Granted, most of your time was spent incapacitated. Sighing deeply, you stare up at the ceiling. You don’t want to think about anything with Banner in the room. Showing weakness here will no doubt have severe ramifications. 

Banner gathers his wits above you, his mouth opening and closing in befuddlement. Finally he comes to his senses, and you aren’t quite sure how to digest the sympathy with which he speaks. "Princess,” he says, “I… I fear you’ve got the wrong idea.”

When you say nothing, staring soundly at the tarp ceiling, he swallows and nods resolutely once more. “Rest. No harm will come to you here, I promise you.”

You don’t believe him, but there’s also a part of you so far gone that doesn’t _care_. As desperate as you are to live, the logic in you doubts you’ll leave this place alive.

Despite your sudden imperviousness towards your safety, you’re still entirely apprehensive to fall asleep in this place. The infirmary is made purely of aging canvas and barely manages to block out the wintry wind outside – correspondingly, numerous fire grates have been lit through the tent, even though you were the only patient. The fire draws shadows up and down the walls, rolling over the ceiling and floor and bedding with each flickering flame. 

With your sickness rendering your sight blurry at times, your paranoia grows. Are those shadows simply a product of the flames or a rogue rebel coming to put an end to you? Is that crackling coming from the fire, or is there someone outside?

Soon, though, your illness wins over your stubbornness, and you’re put to sleep – or, does it count as sleep if you’re dreaming so vividly?

You’re in one of the many hallways in the palace. It’s long and wide, with tall ceilings and large, arched windows that show off the gardens. An ostentatious rug runs along the stretch of the floor, ruby red in a way that reminds anyone who walks the length of the crown’s wealth. That, and, of course, the portraits that line the walls. Each one composed by the realms greatest artists, showcasing your ancestors in the throes of victory and power. 

Your great-great-great uncle standing in battle, boot pressed to an enemy’s chest and sword in hand, peering off into the distance. Your great grandfather, sitting on the throne dressed in his finest habiliments, face stoic and emotionless. Your father, with his detached, impassive features, dressed in his embellished uniform. The only paintings that had women in them were the family portraits – no triumphant poses and vehement statements translated into oil and acrylic. 

You stop in front of the most recent portrait painted. Your father, situated on the throne. Your mother standing behind him, a hand on his shoulder, and you at her side, hands clasped. You remember the day it was painted; you had been so excited to be immortalized for years to come, so eager to see how you would be shown to future generations. Looking at the picture now, you know what people will think of you. Docile, weak-willed.

Your feet carry you away from the paintings and to the other side of the hallway to peer out of a window. The sky is inky black. No stars are to be seen, the moon hidden behind tall evergreens – and yet the hallway is still eerily illuminated by some pale, dramatic light. 

You look back at the paintings. The faces don’t look so benevolent anymore. This light makes them appear scarred, scowling, _growling_ at you, frowns tucked deep into their foreheads and lips curled back in snarls. Your heart pounds in your chest, and, despite your unwillingness to do so, you step closer to the portrait–

Red rivulets drip from your mother’s eyes. Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens in a silent scream, and horror claws its way into your mouth–

And you wake like that, chest heaving and throat scratchy and cheeks wet with tears that you can’t remember crying. You huff and puff and press your hands to your heart, screwing your eyes shut and praying to the gods for – for _something_ , **_anything_**. 

You open your eyes then, fully determined to gather yourself – though it takes a few moments for you to realise that the Captain is sitting by your bedside. Granted, you have only awoken, and he is _frighteningly_ quiet for his size. He doesn’t speak when he notices you watching him – he only watches back. 

He somehow seems less threatening in this light. Maybe after your night terror he seems even less so. Those stories of the ruthless Captain who rode through the night fit the man on the horse like a glove, but not the one in front of you. In your sleep-born delirium, you let your eyes drift over him. 

He has pale, ruddy skin and eyes as blue as the Indigo Sea. Dark eyelashes, the types ladies in court lusted over, and a thick smattering of facial hair covering his chin and upper lip. Blonde hair that fell backwards, and a permanent frown between his brows. Maybe he would be handsome in another life. If he wasn’t a murderous savage in whose hands your life rested. 

When he speaks, you trail your eyes towards the ceiling once more, mind still reeling. 

“Night terrors?” He asks. (His voice is of that baritone that makes anyone who hears it want to listen. Even you, though you suppose that may be because your life depends on him.)

You don’t answer. You wonder if it will make him angry, but the thought of talking to this man about your night terrors seems about as unrealistic as attempting to escape this place.

He hums. “I don’t expect you to answer.”

Good. Because you won’t be–

“Banner tells me you think we’re savages,” he says, and you feel anger spark to life in your chest at the amusement his voice housed. When you don’t reply, he shakes his head. “I suppose you have no reason to think otherwise. I am, after all, the reason you’re bedbound.”

In any other situation you would be glad that your tormentor is admitting his wrongdoings – but it’s so unexpected, so uncharacteristic for this grandiose man in front of you that you’re simply unsettled.

“It’s ludicrous,” he says, laughing shortly, though he doesn’t sound very _entertained_. “Many a man in this camp would call _you_ the savage, princess.”

Amd that sparks something in you – that deep, ancient hatred that has had its home in your heart since you were but a babe. In your sudden flare of rage you fix your eyes upon him once more, narrowed and poisonous. 

“Me?” You can’t help but scoff. Ideas of the silent treatment, of entombing your emotions until a safer time, are buried six feet below you. “I don’t burn down villages or steal grain from farmers or slit the throats of innocents. And I certainly don’t kidnap princesses or queens, either.”

“I know you don’t,” he says. He smiles – not unkindly, mind you, and your mind churns with unrest at the civility in his voice and on the arc of his lips– “Natalia has vouched for your character. I trust her with my life.”

 _Natalia_? Your rage and confusion stumbles to a dizzying stop. You feel bile rise in your throat. 

“Natalia?” You whisper. _Natalia_. It… makes sense. How the rebels knew what road you would take and the time you would arrive – she had even gone to the trouble of putting on a decent show, with her kicking and her screaming and reaching for you. When you thought back, you realised that she had never actually been harmed. A spy. A _traitor_. 

The Captain’s eyes soften just a fraction. “I know how you feel about us, but what you’ve been told isn't–" 

"I’ve been told the truth!” You interrupt, though even you can hear how brittle your voice is. Brittle and weak, like it could crumble under the slightest of pressure. You had trusted Natalia, been under her care since you were 10 and she was 19. She had been a sister to you. And she had betrayed you for the people who wanted you dead. “My father is not a liar–!" 

"Your father is a tyrant!” The Captain bellows, rendering your efforts silent in seconds– “He is a murdering, cowardly tyrant and _you_ are his daughter.”

Shock and rage and irritation and another cacophony of emotions stir into a whirlwind in your chest, seizing your throat and voice and limbs until you’re a rigidly still, gaping-mouthed thing, staring at the Captain as he has the utter _audacity_ to continue his rant–

“Ever since your father’s reign began the common people have lived in squalor,” he spat. “They spend their days harvesting crops, sunscorched and exhausted – crops that only get taken from them, leaving them with next to _nothing_ to feed their own families. If they speak out about it their throats are slit and their villages burnt to the ground, while your father reclines on his golden throne and gets fat off of roast goose and pastries.

“I know what you’ve been told about us,” the Captain finishes, standing. “I know what lies your father has fed you – Natalia’s told me – but I have more important things to deal with than stiff-necked princesses who refuse to see the truth. This rebellion is the last hope of a people.”

“And how do I _know_ you’re telling the truth?” You ask hoarsely. “What am I supposed to do? Trust you?”

The Captain shrugs, smiling in that patronising way that makes you bristle. “The thing about truth, princess, is that it doesn’t change. Whether you believe it or not.”

And he turns on his heel, hands clasped behind his back, and some ignorant, _foolish_ voice in the back of your head notes how he looks more like a king than your father ever has.

Natalia comes to see you a sennight into your bed rest. 

The days have been spent in relative silence. A lady delivers you thin broth and stale bread twice a day – once in the morning and once in the evening. She doesn’t make eye contact and she doesn’t talk, but she also doesn’t glower at you. The guards outside the tent don’t speak, either – in fact, you haven’t even caught a glimpse of their faces, but you get the odd glance at their backs when the entrance flap is opened enough. You suppose things could be worse.

Banner checks in on you every day to monitor your healing, making sure you have enough blankets and take the medicinal concoction that he’s contrived for you. He doesn’t attempt much conversation after the last – but he smiles and asks about how you’re feeling, so you aren’t _completely_ isolated from human interaction.

When you weren’t being checked over by Banner, you were – _refractorily_ – mulling over the Captain’s words, looking for the cracks within your father’s lies that you hadn’t known existed. But you saw them, and it broke your heart. All the strange happenings that you hadn’t wanted to connect, connected – the prisoner’s you would spy being hauled into the castle after dark (young, innocent men with too much fear in their eyes to be terrorists), paper-thin excuses when you asked why you could see the ribs of the townspeople on your rare excursions out of the palace. The betrayal had hurt more than the hypothermia. Your own _stupidity_ had hurt more than the hypothermia.

The night the truth had veraciously settled in, you cried yourself to sleep. Your palace was built on the backs of workers and the blood of the common people, the people you were born to serve and honour. Your father is an autocrat, a glorified _murderer,_ and – like the Captain had said – _you_ are his daughter. You live a lavish life while your people suffer and starve. Culpability rests heavy on your shoulders – and with no way to atone for your ignorance, you simply have to sit and stew in it.

You had been taken for a fool – you _are_ a fool. Crimes of war committed right underneath your nose, and you were none the wiser. And your mother! Gods above, did your mother know? Did she stand behind your father, hand on his shoulder as he gave the orders to slaughter innocents and rip children from their mother’s arms? 

You had always looked up to your mother. She had little to no power or influence as the queen, and yet she had been the one to teach you to be gentle and kind, to have empathy for the less fortunate and treat others equally. The thought that she would be able to live soundly knowing how the people were treated…

How crass! The gods must be having a good laugh.

Banner has just given you crushed white willow bark and Valerian root to ease your pain when Natalia steps into the infirmary tent, though the pain you feel as you see her cannot be cured by any known plant or potion. 

She looks so _different_ ; red hair cut short and curling into loose waves. Stray flakes of snow cling to her copper locks, and she gives you her sickeningly familiar smile as she takes a seat beside you. (It doesn’t reach her eyes.) 

You don’t say anything.

“Banner says you should be right as rain in a few days,” she says, crossing one leg over the other. “I remember when I got hypothermia. Wasn’t the most pleasant experience.”

How can she act as if nothing has changed? As if your whole world hasn’t been turned on its head – as if you aren’t the princess of the man who presumably had ruined her life (and the lives of every soul in this camp)? 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Natalia?” You ask, cursing your throat for becoming clogged with tears. “I – you let me live in ignorance for… for _years_.”

“Would you have believed me?” She asked, raising an elegant brow. (You had always joked that she was more suited to be a princess – delicate features, slender figure, able to charm even the most brutish of men.) “If I told you, would you have?" 

"You’re like a sister to me,” you whisper. “I would have believed anything.”

You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Natalia at a loss for words, and this seems to be one of them. Her mouth closes and her jaw clenches just the tiniest bit, so miniscule a movement that you wouldn’t have noticed it had you not been looking for it. 

“I could have helped,” you say then, but even to your own ears you sound hopelessly desperate. “I could have – could have sneaked out food, o-or bought blankets and furs and medicine. I could have _talked_ to him–”

“Your family’s been like this since before you were born,” interrupts Natalia. “It’s in his blood to be this way. Second nature. Nothing you could say would change that.”

You sniffle. You feel like a buffoon. How long would you have been in the dark had the rebels not taken you? How long would you have supported your father, loathing the rebels who are really the people you should be protecting? You feel sick to your stomach thinking back to how blatantly he had lied – and he would’ve continued to, as well.1

“What will happen to me now, Natalia?” You whimper, pawing at your eyes. Your eyes sting, chest contracting. You haven’t been so vulnerable in front of someone in all your time here. It feels strange to shed tears in front of her. “I can’t go back there. Not ever.”

“You have a place here, ______,” she says gently, grasping your hands in her. “You can help us..”

When you say nothing, staring ahead like she notices you do when you’re overthinking, she tightens her grip on your hands.

“Steven is a _good man_ ,” she urges. The mention of the Captain makes you narrow your eyes. You hadn’t seen him since your rude awakening, and maybe that was for the best. Your own shame would be too debilitating to carry a decent conversation. “He protects those who can’t protect themselves. A bit gruff, maybe, but he’s seen too much to not be. He hasn’t had the easiest life. No-one here has, little one.”

You feared that if you were told of the horrors he had so obviously endured you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself. But it was your duty as princess – no matter how blood-covered your title really is – to listen and accept that it had happened, to work towards a better future. Wasn’t it?

“I’m still trying to separate him from the ghost stories,” you admit quietly, lifting your gaze to meet hers. “I – I know he’s not the… the esoteric monster I thought he was when I was a girl. But it’s hard, after so many years.”

Natalia smiles sadly, shaking her head. “I’m sure he’ll understand. You really could help here, _____. There are certain things that even _I_ don’t know about Azureal. I’m sure he’d appreciate working with you.”

“If he doesn’t kill me first,” you say, laughing dryly with the last of your tears wiped away.

“Don’t be silly,” she says, scoffing, “No-one wants you dead–”

“I can think of many a man who wants me dead right now, Talia.“

Natalia looks you up and down again, and you see her eyes sadden. You know how you must look to the woman who’s seen you at both your best _and_ worst for years; frail and weak, teetering precariously between sickness and health. Bags under your eyes and greyness lingering under your skin. Far worse than the common cold you had once considered your lowest point.

"I’m sorry this had to happen to you in the way that it did,” she mutters, seizing your hand again. A noise over her shoulder draws her attention, before she turns back to you with a sigh. “I… must be off, little one. Errands.”

When she stands you get a glimpse of what had captured her attention, and your heart lurches – there stands the Captain, watching closely with his arms folded and his brow set. He’s waiting for her to leave, you realise. You suddenly feel more alert. 

Natalia bends and kisses your forehead, and for a second you’re back home, tucked into bed and drowsy from the day. She always kissed your head before you slept – once she started when you were a child, she never stopped. 

“I’ll see you soon,” she promises. The last thing you see of her is a smile thrown over her shoulder as she passes the Captain by. 

He clears his throat as if you hadn’t seen him already, stepping into the tent with all the composure and aplomb of a military man. Your eyes follow him as he drops into the chair Natasha had been occupying, sitting just as he had the first time you had truly spoken to him.

For a few moments he doesn’t say anything – just stares, looking as if he’s hesitating to speak. Your own nerves begin to broil in anticipation; he truly must not know how striking he is, even when he’s sitting so _simply._ You’re sure he could look terrifying first thing in the morning – he is, after all, built like what you imagine the giants from your fiction books are, thick corded muscle and broad shoulders and strong thighs.

You wonder if you should speak first. You owe him an apology, you think, for your own insensitivity and disregard. Although you’d been taught to react in a way that was the exact opposite to how you _actually_ reacted, you knew your attitude hadn’t been completely unfounded – there’s no rulebook on how to act when you realise you’re the daughter of a despot.

But then–

“I wanted to give my apologies,” the Captain says, clearing his throat again. Your eyes widen. You had half expected him to pretend his paroxysm never happened and move on, to continue skirting around you like you were a scared filly prepared to bolt. 

“…W-whatever for?” You ask.

He leans forward, elbows to his knees. “It wasn’t my place to reprimand you for something you had no control over. I… admit I allowed my own negative judgements to cloud my actions. You’re the daughter of my worst enemy.”

For a second you’re completely flabbergasted. Never would you have thought that the Captain could be as… empathic and emotionally-logical as he actually is. The fact that he’s evidently overcome his pride to apologise to you of all people… 

“I… I…” There is so much to say but no concise way to say it. You’re still trying to fight against the instincts that have been hammered into you since you were a child; that this man was dangerous, that he would kill you the first chance he got. “Captain–" 

"Steven,” he corrects, though he looks awfully troubled when he says it. As if he hadn’t meant to. As if it had slipped out. “ _'Captain’_ is for soldiers on duty.”

“Steven,” you say carefully, feeling your stomach turn pleasantly at how the syllables feel in your mouth. “If I may speak informally…”

“You don’t have to ask.”

Of course. You weren’t home anymore. You could speak however you wanted to. (How… _strange…_ )

“I have been taught from young to put the needs and wellbeing of my people above all,” you say, swallowing. (You will yourself to organise your disorderly thoughts, ably avoiding the piercing eyes fixed upon you–) “I… I was so focused on what I wanted to believe that I so quickly dismissed your truth – and _I_ am sorry.” 

His smile is one of disbelief, surprise. Had you really come off so stubborn that your very apology took him aback? "I… suppose we were both dolts, then, princess." 

”______,“ you murmur, and suddenly you understand how the Captain – _Steven_ – felt when his own name had been suggested. It’s as if your mouth has a mind of its own. You inhale sharply, prodding nervously at your sleeves. "If I am to call you Steven, you should call me by my gods-given name.”

“______,” he repeats. (Gods, why do you _shiver_?) He nods to himself, a tiny smile gracing his – admittedly handsome – face. “______.”


	3. part 2

The effects of the hypothermia are gone within another week, though you are still plagued by paranoia and disquiet. Though you have mended what frail, _miniscule_ relationship you share with Steven, the rest of the camp is another story. 

It seems that with your capture, you were expected to be flogged, your head paraded around on a spike and the rest of you burned to a crisp. To be fair, you had believed that, too; well, before you were tended to and fed and given a _place_ here. Dressed in scratchy raiment and thick winter boots, you hobble to your new place of residence with Natalia’s help, face covered to protect both your skin and your identity.

It’s a smaller version of the Captain’s – _Steven’s_ war tent, the one you had first been taken to almost a month before. Same dirty tarp and leather, but with less ornamentation – which says a lot, because Steven’s tent was already pushing bare minimum. 

Two piles of furs have been set out for beds, and a pile of books is pressed against the far wall. A few satchels are littered around the small space, filled with trinkets and clothing and even a vial of hair oil. 

It’s cozy and intimate – though you do miss your bedroom at home. A four-poster bed and a high ceiling, windows that overlooked the gardens, a vanity made from carved whale bone. You wince at the thought. While you had been reclining on silk, your people were lying on thin piles of fabric for comfort. 

“It’s not much,” murmurs Natalia, “But it gets the job done. It’s hard to move around so often when you have a lot of belongings.”

“It’s perfect. We’ll be bedding alone?” You ask curiously, collapsing onto the nearest pile. “I thought there were larger communal tents.”

Natalia hums, sitting across from you. “Not safe.”

Of course. You’d find your heart punctured before the end of the night. 

“Steven has started to spread the word, of course,” she continues. “About how you’ve been lied to and want to help. They’re coming around to the idea – even heard one of the cooks say they felt sorry for you!”

Ah, _pity_. Just what you needed. You’d moved swiftly from tyrannical princess to wounded puppy – though another part of you feels grateful that there are those empathic enough to look past their own circumstances to show concern for yours. 

“For the time being you can accompany me on errands,” says Natalia. “Even a nomadic army has chores to be done. The extra hands will be appreciated.”

And although you know next to nothing about chores – having never worked a hard day in your life – you nod eagerly. Anything to be helpful. 

And so begins your new life. The next morning you wake with the sun and follow Natalia to another tent for a breakfast of broth and a bruised apple. The cook, an old, hunching lady from a nearby village, smiles at you as you thank her for the food. _Nobody’s said thank you to me in a long while,_ she tells you.

Afterwards you make rounds collecting dirtied, ripped garments that need washing and repair. Nose wrinkling, you wander after Natalia to the nearby river. A group of ladies have already made their place there, squatting low over cracks in the frozen-over body of water to rinse fabric. That day, you learn how to wash clothes, and although your fingers are numb by the end of the day and your teeth are sore from chattering so hard, you left the river with a newfound sense of purpose and a group of acquaintances. 

It’s like that, some days. You spend hours in the cold by the river, washing and rinsing, before huddling into the nearby tent to dry and sew the garments. Other days, you forage for winter berries and pull up roots to eat. Natalia had once shot a few rabbits and wild turkeys for dinner, too.

It was strange to have to find your own food. Back in Azureal, there were vineyards and farms and special herb gardens specifically tended to by the best gardeners in the kingdom, and all for your family to eat. There were chefs trained by the greatest culinary artists this side of the Indigo Sea who lived to simply see your father chew and swallow their creations. And the food only grew more spectacular and melodramatic as time passed; cakes stacked so high they almost reached the ceiling, pies stuffed with live pigeons that were purely for show – once, for your 17th nameday just a few years ago, your likeness was carved from sugar. 

Things were much simpler here.

“What do you think of them?” Natalia asks you one day, fingernails black with frozen mud. She pulls carrots from the ground easily while you flounder like an inexperienced child. 

“Think of who?” You reply, nose wet from the cold. Your thighs are burning from squatting so low to the ground. 

“The generals. Steven,” she says, casting you a look. 

You shrug. “We get on well, all things considered…" 

On rarer days, Steven and his generals find themselves in need of your assistance. Your knowledge of the capital and the palace is indomitable; of course, having studied maps and history for years and years will do that to a girl. You’re not quite sure what they’re planning – you aren’t told much, which is to be expected – but it involves hours hunched over that damned table, moving around wooden figurines and muttering between themselves. 

Sometimes there’ll be visitors from villages and cities far and wide, offering their services and pledging allegiance and reciting reports of the outside world. It’s sometimes hard to believe that life has continued on when yours had been stopped in its tracks.

The generals are composed of Sirs James, Samuel, Anthony, Clinton, Thor and Rhodey (and Natalia, whose opinion is held in the highest esteem, and it’s generally accepted that she’d be able to overwhelm them _all_ in combat). All smart, well-spoken men, all well-versed on the subject of war and loss and suffering. Every one of them have lost someone or something to your father. None of them hold it against you.

“They don’t treat me like a common criminal,” you say slowly. “I… suppose that is enough for me." 

Quite sad, isn’t it? How lowly your standards have slipped. Back home you expected only respect and kindness to be shown to you – the proper titles and manners and etiquette. Here, you’re simply grateful to be treated like a human. 

(Natalia stops for a moment. When you only continue to scrabble at carrots, she follows suit. You finish in silence.)

After your work is completed you have dinner with Natalia on the outskirts of camp. This time you brace yourself and don’t hide away in your quarters while you eat – you stay in the cooking tent with Natalia, albeit pressed to her side and eating as quickly as possible. You only get one or two dirty looks, which is favourable to the scowls and curses you used to attract. Word really _is_ getting around, hm?

After the thin, flavourless stew, Natalia goes off to visit a friend while you retire to your tent. As the rest of the camp distract themselves with singing and ale, you stare at your ceiling and wish for sleep to come. It never truly does until Natalia finally slips into bed and you feel safe – and even then it is light and unsatisfying.

The entrance to the tent is pulled back roughly, and you stand to attention, heart in your throat. You wished you could kill this perpetual panic – wish you could stop looking over your shoulder and fearing that every corner you turned would bear your doom. 

But it is just a soldier. He is young – far too young to be a fighter, and yet he stands tall and strong like he’s been born into it. Your heart sinks for him. 

"The Captain requires your presence, miss,” he says quietly. 

_Miss_. It isn’t the correct title, not by far, but the fact that he even bothers to address you respectfully makes your heart ache for this boy-soldier even more. 

“Thank you,” you say, standing. “Thank you, Sir…?" 

"P-Peter Parker,” he says, cheeks suddenly flushing. “Not Sir quite yet. I haven’t been knighted – I’m Sir Stark’s squire.”

“Ah, of course,” you say, and you’re surprised by how easily you slip back into your charming, diplomatic mindset. Too deeply ingrained to completely lose it, it seems. “I never would have guessed. You carry yourself like a true knight.”

His cheeks darken. “T-thank you, miss. Ah, this way, please." 

You know the way to the tent. You’ve walked there many times by yourself, but never this late. Perhaps that’s why you have an escort – who you’re deeply grateful for, of course, because the night has left the grounds menacing; bonfires casting scar-like shadows across the frozen grass and howling winds so reminiscent of the ghoulish stories Natalia told you as a child. 

"Thank you, Peter,” you say as you reach the tent.

“Anytime, miss.” And he departs with a toothy grin, and you’re reminded that innocence still has a place in this world. 

Your soft smile slips off your face as you enter – and not because you wish for it to do so. The Captain sits alone, his cloak discarded on a chair behind him and his hair disheveled. The fire behind him surrounds him by a dangerous scarlet glow, and he looks every bit of the warrior he is made out to be. He looks angry. 

He doesn’t spare you a greeting as you enter, you notice. 

“This stretch of land,” he simply says, pointing to some region near Azureal. “What exactly is it?" 

_The Raft_ is what the people of the capital call it. A stretch of dense forest that stretches all across the southern border – said to be haunted by the malevolent spirits of witches wrongfully murdered by witch hunters back when magic still existed. You tell Steven as much.

"It’s patrolled quite lightly. The common people are too frightened to enter, so the Kingsguard spare the men,” you say, frowning down at the carved forest in front of you. “They say that those who go in don’t come out. And if they do, they’re not the same as they were before…" 

You look up from the table at his glowering face, and you can’t help but feel concerned. "Steven, are you okay?" 

He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days, but he still manages a cold, amused smirk. 

"I’m fine,” he says, and you know straight away that he’s not, “Your father has only quadrupled scouts since your disappearance and cut off supply drops to the furthest outlying villages. I’m trying to feed twice the amount of mouths that I usually do – but yes, princess. I’m fine.”

“T-there must be something I can do,” you say helplessly, ignoring the obvious jab in his words. 

“Like what?” He retorts. “There’s nothing you can do that my men can’t.”

It’s the truth, but it still hurts. You’re still adjusting to the fact that all those years of etiquette and law making and languages and horse-riding that you slaved over were for nothing – that you are, in fact, useless. You recoil as gently as your emotions allow, but he still senses it somehow. Nothing slips past him. 

“I – didn’t mean it in that way,” he says, sighing and beginning to stand. “_____–" 

"No,” you say, stepping back. “I… quite understand, Captain. If you’ll excuse me.”

(You’re gone before he can run after you.)

 _You’re not crying. You’re not crying. You’re not crying._ It’s a mantra you repeat in your head as you rush out of the tent and into the cool night air, cheeks flushed from the sudden frost and eyes stinging. 

You know it’s such a small thing to be upset over – a simple slip of the tongue – but it seems that _everything_ has built up and settled on your shoulders; the disgusted looks and curled lips, the hatred for things you hadn’t done but are still desperately trying to atone for – wondering if your mother and father missed you dearly, if they knew you were aware of their malpractices.

You walk for the first time in your life with your head bowed to the ground – in shame, in sadness, maybe simply to hide the tears meandering down your cheeks. So distracted by your own sorrow, the darkness of the night causes you no bother. You make your way back to your quarters – though, distracted as you are, it takes you longer than usual to realise that your things have been strewn angrily across the small space. 

You gasp, rushing forward to inspect the damage to what little you now owned – most of your clothes shredded, parchment torn, little books Natalia had given you ripped from their spines. It’s all you have – and now it’s gone. Your bottom lip trembles, and you give a shuddering sob–

And then there’s this sudden jarring pressure around your neck and your lungs tighten and you’re being dragged back onto your bottom with a squeak – _gods_ , it’s someone’s hands around your neck, and you’re clawing and slapping and desperately trying to remove them from your throat but they’re so _strong_. 

You can’t scream, only manage a few gasps as you’re yanked back to someone’s chest. Your throat is bruising with each second spent with this person’s hands around your neck – you feel like your trachea could collapse and crumble and splinter just from the sheer _strength_ they possess. Are you crying? You don’t know – you can’t recognize anything but panic and adrenaline and fear and this shaky, desperation-fueled need to survive – but you’re growing so weak, your vision tinged with black, and you’re just one second from slipping into the Great Beyond when–

Your fingers curl around a blade thrown on the floor. One of Natalia’s that she uses to shave – it’s sharp to the touch, but you barely feel the sting of it slashing into your palms as you grapple desperately at it. Clutching it in one shaking hand, you gather up the last of your strength to drive it behind you and into the attacker’s shoulder–

They grunt in pain, and you’re shoved onto the floor. Sweet, sweet air fills your lungs, and you blink as stars dance across your eyes. You back yourself against your bed, panting and sobbing in fear, holding the tiny blade in front of you as if would protect you – but they scarper. Face masked in black and wearing an even darker cloak, they stumble to their feet and sprint from your tent, clutching their shoulder and cursing under their breath. 

You don’t know how much time passes after that. You see the glinting silver of the blade in your hands, you see the blood that has painted your flesh crimson – but you can’t feel anything, and your eyes can’t seem to focus on any one thing. Vaguely, like a whisper in the back of your head, you realise you should be terrified. Somebody just tried to kill you. 

“____? Gods, ____–" 

In a sudden jolt of fright you slash outwards, fearing the masked person has returned to finish what they’ve started – but it’s Steven, and he’s much stronger and more skilled than you are. He seizes the blade and flings it somewhere behind him, and as he cups your chin you realise quite suddenly that you’re sobbing. 

"Your hands,” he says, cursing, and he takes them in his and brings them closer to inspect. They’re decorated with deep, gushing gashes, and it’s only when you stare at them for longer than a few seconds that your senses kick in; the painful, pulsing sting reverberating through your flesh, the smell of blood, the weakness and shakiness in your limbs. You suddenly want to get sick. “Gods, what happened? Dove, look at me – what happened–?" 

He takes your chin in his hand, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks to calm you – and it works, because when you meet his eyes you find your thoughts have sort themselves out enough for you to form a few sentences.

"Someone was – was here,” you cry, “They – they tried to–" 

He’s already lifting your head up slightly, inspecting the scratches and bruises left on your skin. He curses again, his jaw twitching angrily and nostrils flaring. If you weren’t so preoccupied with your bloodied hands and your convoluted thoughts you might be scared. Steven looks over his shoulder once more before rising to his full height. 

"Come on, dove,” he orders, “It’s not safe here.”

And with no more to say, he simply bends down and scoops you up, holding you close to his chest as he slips out of your tent. _I’m able to walk,_ you want to say. _I don’t need you to carry me._

But there’s something about the hardness of his chest against you, the strength of his arms under your legs and around your back, the smell of cigars and ale that heats you from the inside out. You feel like nothing can hurt you, not while you’re in the arms of Captain Steven Rogers. You simply sniffle and rest your head against his chest. You ignore whatever discord your proximity might conjure and allow yourself this small comfort after your hellish night. 

He takes hidden paths behind tents and thriving bonfires and rowdy crowds until he reaches his own personal tent. It’s larger than most, and flanked by two soldiers who stand to attention when their leader comes into view – and who gape quite openly at the state of you. 

Steven dissolves them at once. “I want a perimeter ran around the camp – and gather my generals here.” But they don’t move, wide eyes fixed on your bleeding hands and bruised neck and ashy skin. You truly must be a sight to behold. “ _Now_!" 

He settles you on his bed once you’re inside, and you busy yourself with familiarising yourself with every nook and cranny of his tent, lest you lose your wits to the pain. It’s warm and cosy, lit by torches to combat the cold outside. There’s furs against the canvas floor and another pile stacked high as a bed, soft to the touch and marbled with different colours. He’s got a bedside table piled with books and trinkets, and a writing desk with inks and parchment but other than that his room is almost completely bare. You don’t suppose a nomadic rebel leader would have too many possessions. 

"Come ‘ere,” he mutters gruffly, taking a hand in his. He’s got some sort of herbal salve, a bottle of whiskey, and a roll of bandages. “This’ll hurt, dove.”

(Where did _dove_ come from? You don’t know, but you’d be lying if you said it doesn’t at least divert your attention to the gouges on the palms of your hand.)

And it does. He dabs at your cuts with the whiskey with a gentleness you didn’t know he possessed – though it still stings like bloody hell, and the sight of so much blood has you restraining gags. When you hiss, hand jerking back instinctively from the pain, he’s there with soothing words and a warm thumb smoothing over the back of your hand ( _“Only a little more, my dove. You’re doing amazingly_. _”_ ) and when he finishes with the whiskey, he presses a kiss to your knuckles. Your heart leaps. 

There’s a warmth in your chest that you have never quite felt before; it makes you feel like you’re weightless, like not even that masked intruder can pull you down from the clouds you’re so happily perched upon. It all feels like a dream, doesn’t it? Like you’ll close your eyes and it will simply be another night terror, and you’ll wake with your chest heaving and your heart racing like a horse.

But the heat of Steven’s breath against your face and the roughness of his hands cupping yours is _real_. That uncharacteristic softness in his eyes is real, that fearsome protectiveness and anger is real. As real as night is black.

“I–I didn’t see their face,” you mumble tearfully, sniffling as he applies the salve gently. He looks up at you and shakes his head, smiling faintly. “They – they were wearing a mask. I… I hurt their shoulder, I think, with the blade.”

He scoffs, albeit not unfondly, brushing a tear away from your cheek. “You’re all cut up and the only thing you’re worried about is whether you saw their face or not.”

“I don’t want it to happen again,” you say quietly. You almost wince; such raw vulnerability left in the open for him to pick apart, criticise, but Steven does nothing of the sort. He simply finishes bandaging your hands and holds them in his. “What… what were you doing at my tent?”

“…It’s not important,” he murmurs, a thumb smoothing over the back of your hand. He looks up again, and when you meet his eyes you’re almost taken aback by the intensity that they abruptly hold. “The person who did this will pay dearly. I promise you.”

“I don’t want any more people to die for me.”

“Crimes are crimes. They mustn’t go unpunished,” he says. “Especially when they concern those that I care about, dove.”

You’re about to open your mouth to say something, _anything_ , your heart pounding in your chest – but the entrance to the tent is pulled back roughly and Steven’s generals hurry in, all in various states of panic. You suddenly realise just how close you and the Captain had gotten – noses almost touching and hands entwined – and you swallow, averting your eyes shamefully and clearing your throat as Steven stands to address his men. 

Natalia rushes past him and takes his place on the ground by your knees, eyes glassy.

“My little doll,” whispers Natalia, running her thumbs over your cheeks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I should have–" 

She’s always been a mother hen when the time called for it and now is no exception; her voice full of worry and tears as she prods at your bruised neck and inspects the bloodied bandages on your hands. When she’s finally satisfied with your condition she leans back and takes your face between her hands, her bottom lip trembling. 

(And, gods, you’ve never seen her quite so terrified for you – that is, perhaps, what makes it all the scarier. Had her blade not been on the floor…)

"It was nobody’s fault, Talia.”

"Is she alright?” James asks Steven, eyebrows furrowed and stance defensive. You don’t suppose any of them like knowing that someone had attempted murder under their noses. 

“She will be,” Steven replies, voice hushed. He glances over at you again, as if to make sure that something hadn’t happened in the 10 seconds he had looked away. “They tried to strangle her, James.”

“Why are her hands bandaged?” Asks Clinton, stepping closer to inspect the expert wrappings on your palms. 

“She stabbed them. Blade to the shoulder.”

“And you didn’t see their face?” Tony asks, standing over Natalia. He looks particularly troubled by the lax security of the camp. “Anything?" 

"No,” you say. You clear your dry throat, shaking your head. “They had a mask. And a black cloak. I… I didn’t notice them at first. They were there when I came in; shredded everything I own.”

“Personal, then,” Thor notes. 

“An injured shoulder won’t be hard to notice,” says Sam. “That is, if they’re even one of ours.”

The implication hangs heavy in the air for a few seconds before you catch on. 

“My father wouldn’t try to kill me,” you say indignantly, disbelief clear in your voice. You couldn’t even wrap your head around the notion – though there’s a lot that you wouldn’t have been able to believe just a few months ago.

Your father wouldn’t succumb to any of the rebels wishes if you were offered in return for their fulfillment; that, you would admit. But killing you? He’d never…! “He – he wouldn’t!" 

"Your father’s murdered women and children in cold blood,” Rhodey says blankly – and it still stings as much as it did the first time. 

“Your father knows you’re in our hands,” Steven interjects, casting an unimpressed look towards Rhodey when he thinks you’re not looking. “And you know too much.”

“Is it really such an outlandish idea?” Tony says quietly, settling a hand on your shoulder. 

Is it? Gods, you don’t know what’s real and what isn’t anymore. Just months ago you were so resolute in your beliefs – the very idea that your father was a tyrant would have made you laugh. Now you’re entertaining the idea that he sent an assassin to kill you. 

The entrance to the tent is thrown open by a red-faced, panting soldier. 

“Captain,” he says, gasping, “Four soldiers standing guard were attacked – they say it was _Rumlow,_ sir.”

You take a shuddering breath – James curses, Rhodey inhales so sharply that you’re worried he’s winded himself. Tony simply stands, jaw set and eyes hard, and Thor snarls at the ground. Natalia stares right at you, her brows gathering closer to her eyes – but she’s not seeing you, no. If you know Natalia – and you _do_ – you know she’s going over everything in her head, every instance where you were in close proximity with Rumlow and every hint of his hatred he had so innocently dropped. You have to stop yourself from doing the same. Now is not the time to fall into such a hole.

Steven inhales deeply, and when you look up at him he is no longer Steven – he is the Captain. Lines of his face sharp as stone and countenance pulled grim and cruel. He looks furious. You would be scared, but…

_Crimes are crimes. They mustn’t go unpunished. Especially when they concern those that I care about, dove._

“Thor,” Steven says, face sour. “Scouts out in every direction. He couldn’t have gone far in the snow with no horse and an injured shoulder.”

The golden-haired man nods, before turning and slipping out into the night. 

“Ask around about Rumlow,” he continues, looking between his generals. “There may be others prepared to finish what he started.”

“Of course,” Tony says. He pats your shoulder again– “And what of the princess?" 

Steven folds his arms, eyebrows furrowed as if debating with himself. Finally he shakes his head. "She’s safest with me. I’m not taking any chances.”

There’s an unspoken tension in the room at his words; unsure glances exchanged, a shuffling of feet, a question begging to be asked. Your cheeks flush despite yourself; of course, what Steven said is true. He is the strongest and most powerful man in this camp, and there _is_ a chance that somebody may try to harm you again – but the very idea of an unwed man and woman sharing a bedchamber has been _nailed_ into your head as improper.

(You’d take it over being strangled again, though.)

“We’ll convene in the morning,” Steven says, sighing as he wipes a hand over his face. The tone of finality in his voice leaves no room for discussion; after a few seconds of hesitant glances, each of his generals begin to trickle out of the room one by one. 

While Natalia gives her goodbyes, pressing kisses to your forehead and making sure you were _completely and utterly_ okay, James lingers by Steven’s side, a hand on his shoulder. You know you shouldn’t listen in on what you’re sure is a private moment, but…

“Be careful, Steven,” he warns in a low voice, casting a badly-veiled look over at you. “After last time…”

“I know,” Steven says forcefully. “I _know_.”

He stands in the entranceway for a few minutes after the last of them are gone, arms folded and jaw set. It’s clear that he’s deep in thought. Whether he’s thinking about you or Rumlow or this _last time_ that James had so cryptically reminded him of, you’re not sure. And you really _are_ tired of not being sure.

“You need to rest,” Steven says. He’s looking at you, and you wonder how long you’ve been staring at him for – head still swimming with the aftermath of your raucous night. “Your wounds will heal better that way, dove.”

“I… don’t think I’ll be able to,” you confess, suddenly infatuated with the dirty canvas floor at your feet. There’s silence – then, a shuffling sound as he makes his way towards you. You see his knees touch the floor and then your hands are in his again. 

“I’ll protect you, you know.”

You know he will, and it is that simple fact that makes you so damn confused. You tell him as much.

“I don’t _understand_ ,” you say, desperate. "I – you’re prepared to share your bed with me, Steven, and for what–?" 

"Look at me,” he murmurs. “_____, look at me.”

So you do – straw coloured hair and cerulean eyes and a beard thicker than the snow outside. Three freckles below his right eye and the beginnings of crow’s feet sketched just at the corner of his eyes. Just a few months ago you wouldn’t have been able to hold eye contact with him for as long as you were. Just a few months ago, you would have rather slit your own throat rather than share his bed. 

“My father would never show such kindness to a rebel soldier,” you say, watching his reaction closely. “I know you are not the same kind of man that he is – I just… I wonder why.”

 _After last time…_ What happened? What terrible tragedy had your father set in motion? What sadness had he inflicted on this man in front of you? 

“What happened to you?” You whisper into the empty air between you. “I – you don’t have to tell me should you not want to. I just – I feel I need to take responsibility for my father’s actions.”

He stares at you for a long time after that. Not in a way that suggest he’s angry, but… He’s watching you. Looking for something in your eyes and you’re not sure if he’s found it or not when he smiles sadly, looking down.l

“My village was once on the other side of this forest. Should you try and find it now you will only be met with ash and soot.”

“Gods above, Steven. I…” Your apologies will mean nothing, but this sudden ache in your heart, this understanding of the profound sadness he must carry with him… 

He nods, jaw set, before continuing. "I was out hunting when it happened. Saw smoke rising above the trees – I ran back, but it was too late. I wouldn’t have been able to do anything, anyways. I was only a boy, really, barely of my 18th nameday. My family was killed – for years I thought James perished too. And… I lost my beloved.”

His eyes cloud just the tiniest bit – and though he’s staring at you, he’s not seeing you. He has gone back in time, back to that time of pain and loss and helplessness. Back to the scared boy who had ran out of the forest and seen his home up in flames. 

“Her name was Margaret,” he murmurs. He gives a short laugh– “I called her Peggy. She was strong and smart and brilliant. She did great things – she would’ve gone on to do greater things.”

“I’m – I’m so sorry, Steven,” you whisper, throat burning with the effort of withholding tears. “I – truly, I am. I know that means nothing, but–”

“You were barely a babe when it happened,” he retorts, swiping a knuckle against your cheek playfully – but there’s still that sadness there. “It wasn’t your fault.”

It _wasn’t_ your fault. But you had willingly supported the man that had orchestrated it, and the guilt that settles in your stomach refuses to dissipate as a result. 

“Look at me,” he says again, taking your chin in his hand. “You had no part in it, dove.”

“ _I_ should be consoling _you_ ,” you sniffle, laughing. “You never stop being the Captain, do you?" 

He shrugs, eyes drifting most imperceptibly downwards. "It’s not a job that offers time away.”

“No?” You ask, suddenly all too aware of how close he was drifting – his nose almost touching yours, his eyes focused below your eyes. “No, I don’t suppose it would, all things considered–”

You break off, breathing shakily. The air between you is like the way the atmosphere feels before a storm – charged, electric, _exciting_. 

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

You take a shuddering breath, licking your bottom lip nervously. “I won’t." 

It is the first time you’ve felt the lips of a man. They’re rough and chapped but he presses them so softly to yours that you hardly notice. Your senses are set alight with him: his heady scent and the scratch of his beard against your chin. The drag of his lips against yours, the calluses on his hands against your chin, the arm that wraps around your waist and pulls you forward to the ground and onto his lap.

He tastes the way warmth feels, and he draws sounds from you that you had no idea a lady could make – and when he pulls away, breathing heavily, you’re cheeks are as hot as the fire that burns just a few feet away. 

"Get some rest,” he murmurs against your lips – and you’re still speechless, still playing that kiss over and over in your mind, that you allow him to haul you into his arms again and settle you into his bed. The blankets smell like him, all spicy and musky and comforting. He sits on the edge of his bed, watching as your eyes blink sleepily.

“Will you not sleep?” You ask quietly. 

“I will,” he promises. “Only once you do, dove of mine." 

For a long, heart-stopping moment you forget about the bloody bandages wrapped around your hands and allow yourself to fall into a bittersweet fantasy; one where you aren’t stuck between two worlds, one where your Captain is your Prince Charming, your knight in shining armour, and not your father’s arch enemy. One where said father isn’t a murderer. 

And you fall asleep like that; wrapped in his blankets and the flush of love still dotted across your cheeks, mind full of false realities and wishful thinking. 

You’re awoken from your sleep by yells and the thudding of hooves against mud. It’s not quite unusual to hear shouting at this hour of the morning – it is of course, above all, a military camp – but when Steven slips out of the tent to face the commotion head on and doesn’t return straight away, you know something of importance must be happening. 

You sit up, rubbing at your eyes and inspecting your bandages to the best of your ability. Your throat is bruised and swollen, hands sore and throbbing, your bottom tender from when you had been pushed onto the ground – but you’re alive, and you suppose that’s all that matters. 

You stumble from his bed and stretch, eyes flitting about the tent. In the early morning light it looks different; softer, less daunting. Everything is bathed in soft golden light, so gentle that the noise outside seems almost rude. 

You’ve perched yourself on the edge of the bed again when you’re suddenly hit by a particular memory that had been hiding away, waiting for the right moment to snap to attention and render you immobile. The kiss. The kiss that Steven had pressed to your lips – the one that you had reciprocated in equal measure.

(As if confusion is lacking in your life as _is._ )

(… Though you wouldn’t protest against another.)

”_____.“ Natalia bursts into the tent, hardly stopping to apologise when the early morning winter sun blinds you. 

"What’s happening out there?” You ask, glancing over her shoulder. “Is something wrong–?" 

She presses you down towards the bed again, hands warm against your shoulders. "Sit down, little doll–" 

Your stomach turns, confusion and fear settling like stones in your gut. "Natalia, what’s happened?" 

She kneels in front of you. "They’ve found Rumlow.”

“That’s – that’s good, isn’t it?” Hesitance finds its home in your voice. 

“They…” She swallows, unsure. “They’ve taken him back. He’s tied up with the hounds, but…”

“Natalia, please.” You’re not quite sure what you’re begging for. 

“They found a sigil on his arm, little doll,” she whispers, finally meeting your eyes. “Your _family’s_ sigil.”


	4. part 3

“…therefore, we _can_ confirm that this was a direct attack by the crown. Rumlow had been on his way to report back to the king — once he doesn’t show, it will be assumed that he was killed. It’s likely that more assassins will be sent subsequently.”

“And has he revealed anything?” Steven asks.

“Nothing. He’s always been as stubborn as a mule, you know how he is…”

Their words fade back into nothingness. You’ve been staring at the ground for what feels like hours — thinking, not thinking. Staring at the bandages around your hands, imagining what your mother would say; _a lady’s skin is as smooth and clear as the marble used to carve her likeness._ She was always so perfectly composed, poised. Every movement was gracefully calculated, every word was poetic. She was the image of all you’d ever wanted to be — and now, with your jagged, scarred palms, you’d surely never be thought of as a proper lady again. You’re unsure whether you should rejoice or mourn. 

Your world has been, once again, turned on its head. Maybe you should be used to it by now. It’s only that, you’d thought that perhaps after last night you’d be afforded some relaxation – but each turn only served to further alienate you from normality. 

The bitter truth is, as much as you had been told about your father, it had never truly seemed _real_ — he had always been kind and caring, concerned for your safety… and he had sent an assassin to _kill_ you because you knew the inner-workings of the Capital. You feel like a fool. A green, naive fool, who — despite the warnings and the _evidence_ presented to her — still held hope for her own, selfish truth.

“…she’s been like that since this morning,” another voice mutters. Natalia, maybe. “She hasn’t eaten, won’t speak much either.”

You feel a hand brush against your cheek — then trail to your shoulder, and finally take one hand in theirs. “Hey.”

You almost don’t register that it’s you that is being spoken to.

“_____, look at me.”

When you look up, eyes cloudy and shining with unshed tears that you hadn’t noticed, Steven is kneeling before you. Behind him, standing around the table, are his generals. How curious — you don’t remember leaving his personal tent.

“_____,” he murmurs, cupping your face. “Perhaps you should go and rest—”

“No!” You recoil, "I — I want to stay with you. I’m sorry, I’m — I’m simply distracted—”

“Calm down,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours, and you realise with a start that you’re breathing much too quickly— “Calm down, dove.”

 _Dove._ A slip of the tongue, maybe, or a fleeting thought that had pushed itself onto his lips. But there’s a choked noise behind him, and suddenly James is brought to your attention.

“Steven, I _told_ you—”

Steven huffs in annoyance, pulling back just slightly from you. “I _know_ what you told me.”

“But you didn’t heed my advice, obviously,” James retorts, jaw set. He glances down at you. “You never _do—_ ”

“This isn’t the time for this!” Steven declares, but he stands swiftly and turns towards his childhood friend, stance defensive. “We have more important matters at hand.”

“Making decisions that could cost us our entire cause shouldn’t be made while you’re distracted,” James presses, stepping closer to Steven, and you can practically taste the tension that rolls off his shoulders. 

“I’m _hardly_ distracted—”

Quickly, you stand, drawing the men’s attention. “You must forgive me, Sir James. My… my whole world has been flipped and turned and — well, it’s only settled in. I – I won’t be a distraction, I promise. I can help. I can draw the city’s layout from memory in my sleep if you so wished it.”

James, seemingly at a loss for words, simply chews the inside of his cheek and sighs deeply. He looks between you and Steven — furrows his brows and meets his Captain’s eyes with a look that says _I hope you know what you’re doing_. He steps back. 

A glance around the table yields similar results – a general agreement to accept more of your help, but a reluctance to completely and utterly place trust in you. A unanimous decision that should you step out of line, betray their trust, you were back to being a glorified prisoner – doing chores and sharing a tent but unable to leave or make your own choices. Even with your being the object of Steven’s… affections.

A warm hand finds its place on your waist. 

“We’ll build a new world,” Steven says, voice firm. “A _just_ world. Together." 

×

"He hasn’t spoken to anyone. Are you sure you want to talk to him? He’s no better than feral." 

The tent Rumlow is held in is less of a tent and more of a glorified _cage_. It’s small and grimy and houses the hounds, one singular pole keeping the entire structure afloat. 

You don’t know what you’re trying to prove. Your strength, your courage, ability to put aside your own discomfort in the name of progress? Maybe you simply look more foolish than before; Steven’s generals had warned that Rumlow wasn’t expected to speak at all, never mind to _you_. But here you are, furs pushed up to your neck and standing so close to the fair-headed soldier that your shoulder brushes against his arm. 

"I’m positive.” Perhaps if you square your shoulders and raise your chin you’ll believe yourself. In all honesty, the idea of confronting the man sent to kill you by your father makes your stomach turn. But it’s something that must be done — if not for the cause, then for your own mental wellbeing. For your own closure. “I – in the most unladylike manner, I… I want to…"

“You want to show him he’s failed.”

“…Yes.”

“I understand. You shouldn’t feel ashamed. I–” He stops, as if hesitant, but continues– “I’ve dreamed of doing the same." 

_To your father._ Unspoken, but louder, still.

For a moment you’re struck with the same feeling – of wanting to stand above your father, victorious, having him realise that his worst fear had come true. That he had lost his power, his daughter, and everything else he held dear. For him to truly regret his actions in his last seconds. Then the feeling passes, and you’re only left with shock at your own inclinations. 

"Say the word and it’ll be over,” says Steven then, firm. His eyes glint dangerously – and shortly, you’re unsure whether he’s reminding you that you can leave at any time or implying that he’s prepared to end Rumlow’s life. 

You’re suddenly hesitant – though maybe more so because of the sudden, startling notion that you don’t _care_ if Rumlow dies or not. Your skin crawls, mind torn between the fact that this man attempted to _murder_ you, and your disapproval for violence where it could be avoided. 

In the end, you nod. “I know.”

 _How peculiar it is_ , you note with a dark sense of humour, _that just a few weeks ago I would have cowered in the presence of Steven._ _Now it is he who guards and protects me while I face my assailant_. 

It is to the tent’s singular pole that Rumlow is tied, and you almost don’t recognize him. His face is bruised and bloody, left eye swollen shut and front teeth missing from his sneering mouth. His hair hangs limp and greasy onto his grimy forehead, his clothes torn and ripped, and you can see his shoulder is red and raw and scabbing over from where you stabbed him.

 _He must be freezing_ , you think, eyeing where his skin is pressed against the cold floor. _These winters take pity on no man_. Let him freeze. If not death, he at least deserves _this_ discomfort. 

“Princess,” he croaks as you enter, split lips widening into a smile. “How nice to be in your presence. Pardon the way I look, the Captain did a number on me." 

You school your features to hide your shock because Rumlow _truly_ looks like a living corpse. Never had you seen such a blatant show of brute strength and violence from Steven. You can’t deny that Rumlow deserved it, but had Steven really felt so strongly about your assault that he had reduced Rumlow to the poor battered excuse for a man on the floor before you? 

A quick unsure glance at his face reveals it all; the disgust that contorts his features is even more potent than that which he had held for you when you had first been captured. He looks as if he’s restraining himself from surging forward and putting an end to it — quite frightfully, though you notice how he steps just the slightest bit in front of you, shoulders set and jaw hard, and you’re suddenly struck with the affirmation that he would _never_ bring harm to you. He has become the Captain once again, but he has pledged his services _to_ you.

“I’m sure if you had something important to say it would have been said already,” you say, watching as Rumlow’s lip pulls back in a sneer. “Though I can’t help but be confused.”

“The Captain and his men have already tried to wrangle the truth from me, princess.” His teeth are reddened and bloody when grins wolfishly, and you can’t help but wince faintly. He must be in a lot of pain — but your palms twinge in reminder of your own, and you steel yourself once more. “What makes you think I’ll answer to the likes of _you_?”

Steven’s fists clench. 

“You don’t have to answer, though you can certainly listen — I have enough anger to fuel conversation for the both of us.” 

Rumlow is the epitome of a brute. He acts first and thinks later, has a temper that’s as explosive as the annual fireworks that glimmer in the sky for the Harvest Festival. He likes being in control, and although he’s beaten and bruised and tied up with the _hounds_ his last ounce of control is the information that he’s holding close. But every man has a chink in his armour and you’d be damned if you can’t find his. “I suppose that the sigil on your arm means that you were trained in the Azurealean army. Though I can’t help but wonder how you entered it.”

“Like any man with half a shred of courage does.” He’s already defensive, snarling and growling like a wounded dog. 

“Yes,” you hum. “Though the timeline is skewed, isn’t it? Sir Barton has expressed his shock at your betrayal — he says you’ve been with the rebellion since you were a young man. An orphan, he says, no mother or father to speak of. How young were you when you came here? At least 16, I’d wager. That’s the lowest age required by the Royal Forces.”

Rumlow’s eyes darken.

“My governess would tell me scary stories when I misbehaved as a young girl,” you murmur softly. “Stories of high-born children stolen from their parents. Sons made to be boy-soldiers. Is that what happened, Rumlow? Were you captured in the night, stolen from your family—?”

Rumlow bellows, suddenly rushing forward and straining against his restraints with such ferocity that you stumble backwards — but Steven is there, grasping the column of Rumlow’s throat roughly and shoving his head back onto the pole so forcefully that Rumlow chokes and blinks, eyes rolling momentarily to the back of his head. 

“Try it again,” Steven seethes through gritted teeth. “Give me another reason to have your head paraded around this camp on a bloody spike.”

It takes you a few seconds to realise that you’re panting, hands instinctively clutching your neck. The instability of your limbs reminds you of the fear that you’ve been plagued with during your time here — reminds you of your helplessness, your weakness, and your anger ignites with the same ferocity that had taken ahold of Rumlow.

“I would feel sorry for you,” you say, voice so bitter that for a moment you scare _yourself_ , “Truly, I would, but the _ignorance_ that you exhibit is so mind-boggling that all I feel when I look at you is pure and _utter_ hatred. Your _family_ would have had you married off like a stallion for breeding. My father would have given you command in his army, would have you give the order for the slaughtering of _thousands of innocents_ —”

“Thousands of rebel _scum_!” He’s foaming at the mouth now, neck still held under Steven’s clutch. “Breeding like cockroaches, leeching off the land. I was taken when I was barely 17. I’d already joined the army, made my place in Azureal, and it was _ripped_ from my hands! I had to live among these bloody pigs for years, working up the ranks, assimilating, reporting back when I could—”

"And you did a good job,” you snap. “Pretending that you hate my family, pretending that you’re an honourable man while you took coin from my father to _kill_ me!" 

“Something had to be done.” Another wide, unsettling smile. “Your father couldn’t have you switching sides. Not with all that knowledge in your pretty little head.”

Rage, cool and hot and glutinous and whip-fast, drips down your shoulders and onto your torso. The _nerve_ — the ignorance, the _deliberate_ wrong that he’s committed, the unfaltering loyalty to your father — and all based on the fact that his childhood was unsavoury. 

You never got the chance to know Azureal as a regular person would. You had occasional visits; parades, festivals, public outings to the markets. But you had never known it truly — you saw its beauty, the lanterns hung up above your head and the smell of resonant perfumes. You’d always thought of it as a wondrous city, truly, but even so you weren’t quite so disillusioned. There had to be at least one person suffering in Azureal — suffering _more_ than Rumlow ever had. And yet no soul has resorted to… to _this_.

Rumlow is a man. A man with a scary sense of entitlement. And unlike the scary stories from your childhood and the extravagant, ruthless tales that had surrounded the Captain, you are _shockingly_ aware of the fact. Not a faceless monster, not a soulless assassin with eyes of pure onyx like you had seen the night before.

Just a man. 

You straighten your back and raise your chin, clasping your hands together. You meet Steven’s eyes. “That will be all, Captain. He is of no further use to me.”

You hear a loud thud and a groan from Rumlow when you turn on your heel and stride out. Steven pulls back the folds of the tent and steps out seconds later, looking for all the world as if he wants to re-enter and add another bruise to Rumlow’s visage. 

"It’s simple, then,” you say, sighing. “His mind was turned. Clinging onto the life he once had.”

Steven watches you carefully, arms folded. “Are you okay?" 

"Me?” You ask distractedly. “Yes, yes, of course. Just… it’s tragic, isn’t it? Stolen away as a child. Who could do such a thing?" 

"The rebellion has had… unsavoury leaders. Leaders that saw only black and white. Sinning is not sinning if it’s for the cause; an Azurealean child is still Azurealean.”

He lets you stew over his words, and then: “Perhaps that’s why they failed – they allowed their own grievances to affect their choices. They didn’t want peace – just a flipping of tables. To see their oppressors underfoot.”

You know this, of course. Before Steven there had been a whole committee of rebel leaders known only as _the Shield_. They had disbanded under mysterious circumstances – a victory for your father, until Steven had risen from the ashes and continued with fury tenfold years ago. 

“And you?” You can’t help but wonder. You know Steven is a just man, morally upstanding and true – but will he hold that same drive for the people of the Capital? The men in the army who just wanted to feed their families and put a roof over their heads? You’ve heard stories of kings who were kind and benevolent – but their minds were lost to the passage of time, twisted by old memories of war and discrimination. In their madness, they had turned into that which they hated most. 

And seeing Steven so freely strike Rumlow – a man who deserved it, no doubt, but the sentiment still stands – rolls the tiniest ball of doubt in your stomach. 

“Will you remain as you are now, Steven?” You _must_ know. “The Capital is _filled_ with men like Rumlow–”

“And none of them have laid a hand on you,” he interrupts, fierce. “None of them have conspired to kill you.”

You… suppose. Is this the length that Steven’s affections for you reach? Would he go as far as to slay a man in your name? Your speechlessness pushes him to speak, and he answers your silent questions in kind:

“I’ve lost too much to stand idly as those I care about are hurt. Dislike it or not, my love, but if it comes to it my sword will find the neck of any man who wishes to do you harm.”

The idea isn’t as outlandish as it seems. Every knight in Azureal is sworn to give their life for yours if need be. But Steven isn’t an Azurealean knight; he’s a man, a powerful man, pledging his sword for the fondness he holds of you. Your stomach twists and turns in that pleasant way it always seems to when in his presence – distantly, you take note of your cheeks heating up in the frosty air, stinging underneath layers upon layers. 

The chill is numbing your nose, your fingers, your lips. Still, you find it within yourself to speak, suddenly short of breath like a giggling maiden. “… Thank you, Steven.”

“You still don’t understand, do you?” He asks quietly. “How I can feel what I feel for you.”

A few feet away, a group of soldiers shout and jest amongst themselves as they pass — such rowdiness feels wrong when Steven’s so close. Like your own little bubble of silence floats around your heads, filling your lungs with air so sweet that you feel like you’re back in the castle, back in those gardens filled with roses and buddleias and hanging begonias.

 _When all is said and done_ , a voice in your head says, _you’ll be able to traipse those gardens with him. There’ll be no rebellion, no war. Just peace._

“We — we’ve only known each other for a few months,” you say, licking your dry lips. _But I care for you more than I thought possible._ “And I… I assumed it would be harder for you to shed your prejudice of me.”

“If you had remained with your father you would have been married to a man you’ve known for less,” Steven replies, brow furrowing at the thought. “And you speak of prejudice being shed — though do you feel for me as I feel for you?”

“You’re a smart man, Steven. You know that I do.”

“Then you know, princess,” he murmurs, stepping closer, if possible. “You _know_ that your emotions outweigh that which you’ve been told.”

He’s close enough to kiss. Just a little push of your feet and you’d be tall enough to connect your lips, tall enough to wind your arms around his shoulders and bathe in the sheer _affection_ of his presence. The last of the fear that had lingered deep in your bones falls to the ground with the snow, and melts all the same.

(Is this love? Is this what poets and artists and sculptors have slaved over for millennia? The cause of wars and tragedies, the drive behind men and women throughout time? Looking at this man – this soldier, with his uncharacteristically gentle brow and soft eyes – you think it could be.)

You exhale softly — watch as your breath frosts and clouds in the icy air, drifts over his lips. The closest you will get to a kiss in such an open, public space. “They don’t trust me, still.”

“They will, in time,” he promises, gaze so sure that you believe him, even as someone approaches from behind you and his eyes are commanded elsewhere. “They will.”

X

The camp packs up within the day. Evening is the safest time to travel, Steven says, with the open terrain making it easy for the army to be spotted during the day. Tents are rolled tight into packs, scarce food supplies piled into wooden wagons. Your own belongings – minute as they are – are placed into the saddlebags of the horse you ride. 

A group of scouts are sent ahead to survey the area before the army truly arrives, and coded letters are sent to allies all over the country detailing your next whereabouts. And there are a lot of allies, but none so grand as one Alexander Pierce. 

_(“To the stronghold of Alexander Pierce, over the peaks of the Crimson Mountains,” Steven had read aloud. You remember peering curiously over as he penned down his words, letters scrawling and thin,“who is set to meet with Captain Steven Rogers and his army on the Eastern Plains.”_

_“Is this not a risk?” You had asked, brow furrowing. “To reveal your location so blatantly?"_

_"Alexander Pierce is one of our greatest allies, if not the greatest,” Anthony had interjected. “He’d never betray the cause."_

_From there they had branched off into grand war stories, tales of last-minute rescues and valiant battles. The largest benefactor of the rebellion – and yet, his name sounded strangely familiar, as if you had heard it once in a dream._

_But your Captain and his generals were certain of him. Who were you to argue?)_

It’s truly a marvel, you think now, looking behind and over Steven’s shoulder, and seeing the long, sprawling line of soldiers walking in time. Like tiny little ants, dutiful and resolute. It instills hope in you, knowing that the rebellion’s forces are as loyal and numerous as they are.

Steven had insisted that you ride with him. It is much more pleasant than the last time — bundled up in thick sheep fur, arms unbound and back pressed to Steven’s chest. And you can see where you’re going, which is even better, though the landscape is mostly snow-covered hills and distant forests. Still, it is better than the black of a blindfold.

"I’ve given much thought to your protection,” Steven suddenly says, bowing his head to your ear. You’re startled for a moment – he hadn’t talked much in the hours that had passed, save for the orders he had shouted to his men and the idle babble that Sir Samuel had made for a few moments. “Have you ever shot a bayonet?" 

A bayonet? _You_? Your mother would’ve found an early grave if you had even _touched_ one. You’re slightly giddy at the thought: you’d always thought they were beautiful, graceful. You’d seen magnificent ones hanging in your father’s office, wood carved with vines and flowers, metal shining and polished even when left untouched. Never had you imagined that _you_ would shoot one, though. 

"No,” you reply. “My mother always said: _ladies don’t dirty their hands with matters of violence_.”

Steven hums. “Even a lady must learn how to defend herself.”

“And you would teach me?” There’s no hiding the excitement in your voice. Even Steven chuckles, chest rumbling behind you, and you find yourself sinking deeper into his embrace. 

“I would." 

"Not suitable weather for shooting, is it?” You ask, nose wrinkling as a snowflake lays claim to the tip of it. “I fear my fingers would become brittle and crumble from the cold.”

Another breathy laugh. “No, not the best for a learning lady, my love.”

 _(My love_. Your chest flutters.)

“It’s warmer east,” he continues. “Spring reaches there first. We’ll be able to shed these furs at last." 

The thought is comforting. Spring and summer were always your favourite times of year; with bright, blossoming flowers spreading their fragrance through the air, with the exotic fruits that would finally be in season. Salads and buttery bread rolls and cold, smoked meats, fruit tea swirling with honey and flower buds. The harvest festival, with its high floating lanterns and festive delicacies, the dancing and singing in the streets you could hear from your window–

"But the journey will be long,” finishes Steven – and you gasp as his lips find your pulse, leaving just a clandestine kiss there before pulling back. “Sleep if you can, dove.”

And sleep you do, waking only when breaks are afforded to eat and rest. Once in the morning, once in the afternoon, and you travel through the entirety of the night. Your legs and back ache, your hips are restless and sore — but you’re making good time, Steven says, and should be in the east within the next two days at most. Still, even during breaks you work, banding together with Natalia and a few of the other women to make something of a stew — mostly root vegetables, herbs and beef bones — but the soldiers eat it with gusto, even going as far as to give their thanks to you. To _you_!

Even that little interaction energises you. The next two days pass in the same fashion but you power through them with a strength you didn’t know you possessed. Although your injuries are a bother and you aren’t at all acclimated to riding, especially for such long periods, you continue on. Not one complaint leaves your lips during this time, and you do your best to raise the other’s spirits when they were doing the opposite. 

“Have you noticed?” Natalia asks one morning, hunched over one of many stew cauldrons. 

“Noticed what?” You have no inkling of what she could be referencing — it comes out of nowhere, after all, and you find yourself glancing around the sheltered glade where the front lines have settled to rest. Steven and his generals are making quick work of their tents, not as secure or well-fortified as they could be, but they have to be cleared up after a few hours. It’s the last stretch of travel, and already the air feels warmer.

“The way he looks at you.” She grins as she looks up, squinting through the sharp morning sun. 

You balk. “D-don’t be foolish, Natalia–”

“He calls you _dove_ ,” she continues, voice teasing. “And he looks at you as if he’s a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. Surely you’re not so ingenuous?”

“We—” Another cautious glance around at the bustling camp, and you resort to squatting down beside her— “We — that night when Rumlow attacked me… he… I… well, he kissed me.” You end on a hushed whisper, still peeking occasionally and conspiratorially over your shoulder. Saying it aloud makes your chest thump, cheeks heating, and not completely from the cold. “I’ve never felt the lips of a man.”

Natalia sighs wistfully, fondness in her voice. “How romantic. A love found amidst war.”

“It’s not quite so developed!” You squeak. “He only… well, he comforts me. He makes me feel safe… he’s got such hope for the future, his ideals are pure and virtuous. There are many men in this land, Natalia, but he is the one I trust most to rule.”

She hums. “ _Not quite so developed._ I see.”

“Natalia—!”

“Oh, hush,” Natalia jests, grappling for the wooden spoon leaning precariously against the cauldron. “I know love when I see it, you know. You’ve grown beside me, little doll, and never before have you held such passion for a man.”

“That’s because the men I had the displeasure of meeting were ludicrous and self-absorbed.” 

All suitors disguised as friends; princes from across the Indigo Sea, lords of wealthy and highly-admired houses hailing from the east, dukes from the north and viscounts from the south. They’d come in the spring and summer in their western houses, propped by the sea the palace overlooked. They’d take you on carriage-rides and talk about their grand houses; they’d walk the gardens and boast of their courage and bravery. You don’t think any of them had ever genuinely been in combat; fingers free of calluses and skin as smooth as yours.

 _Not like Steven,_ your mind supplies.

No, nothing like Steven. With his short hair and toughened skin, hard brow and equally stony eyes. His jaw, as sharp as glass, and his mind, even sharper. His frigid disposition and aloofness — the softness of his touch, the ease of devotion alight in his eyes when he looks at you…

“I won’t fight with you,” Natalia says, rising to her feet. You follow suit. “But I will ask you a question, little doll; when you look into your future, who do you see beside you?”

When you return to riding hours later, you think about it. Pressed against Steven’s chest, hands grasping loosely at the reins he so easily commands. Who do you see beside you?

The future is uncertain. If the rebels succeed — and you have every hope in your heart that they do — things will change. You’d live in the city, maybe, in the palace as an advisor if it would be allowed. You’d see Natalia often, and the other women you had come to know in your time here (Carol and Maria, and Monica and Wanda) would finally have the ability to join the Royal Guard. The generals, with their joking and banter, would fill the hallways with laughter. And the man that commands them, sitting on his golden throne, would bring peace and prosperity abound. 

The sun burns blood-red as it begins its descent to the horizon; a bad omen, you’d once read, but the day was sweet and the next day would be sweeter. You close your eyes and settle your head against Steven’s shoulder, and drift off to the steady rocking of the horse underneath you.

And when you wake — morning, now —, the grass is green. Not swathed in snow and not dusted with frost — green, emerald green, like the earrings your mother wore for her wedding anniversary, like the velvet gown you’d been gifted by a duchess in the north for your 17th nameday. Your forehead is beading with perspiration (you hadn’t had the luxury to sweat with warmth in a _long_ time), and the trees are beginning to bud with new life. In the distance, birdsong, and when you sit up straight and wipe at your eyes, Steven greets you softly.

“Good morning, dove. Enjoy your sleep?” His voice is teasing, but sleep and distraction render you unbothered in returning his jests.

“Very much so,” you say, attention drawn by the soft blush pink of a passing bush. Ahead, Sir James leans sideways from his horse to pluck a single bud from the bramble. “Spring has finally arrived.”

“And everyone is glad,” he replies, a sigh of relief carving itself out of his chest. “No more furs, more wheat and barley and _food_.”

“No more frozen toes and fingers, hm?” And you act on your momentary bravery, reaching forward to brush your fingers over his.

“Winter’s chill hasn’t quite left us yet,” he says, before leaning forward. “Perhaps the hand of a lady should warm me?”

“W-well, I — I—” His breath is warm and shiver-inducing, proximity and chocolate-smooth words leaving you tongue-tied and fuzzy-minded.

His laugh is booming and bright, seizing the attention of his flanking generals — and they’re equally as quick to chuckle and grin, the enticement of the end of the journey easing their aches and pains. You can’t help but think, as the air fills with jokes and conversation, that the rebels had brought spring with them.

x

The army settles in the shadow of a great, white-stone cliff. Great plains of yellow grass stretch for what seems like forever behind you, and in the distance, the tops of deciduous trees nearly touch the sun. It’s to this forest that Steven takes you when the tents are assembled and all duties are fulfilled; with only a bayonet and a skin of water, he takes your hand in his and together you trek through the knee-length grass.

You find yourself glancing up at him every once in a while; having shed his furs and leather waistcoat, he’s left only in a white shirt, unbuttoned so the fine wisps of his that coat his chest are revealed. He shines as golden as his hair, as golden as the grass, in the sun; cheeks already ruddy from the warmth and brow more at ease than ever. His hand is large and firm, reassuring in every touch, and you have to stop yourself from actively thinking about your hand in his. The prospect of pulling him down and setting your lips to his is growing more attractive by the minute.

“What?” His query knocks you out of the clouds.

“What?” You reply in kind.

“You were staring, dove,” he says, amused. “Such concentration should be reserved only for shooting.”

“You know, that explains _much_ about you, dear captain.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean, dear princess?" 

And you laugh together, revelling in each other’s company as the forest grows nearer – and for a miniscule moment you imagine that you’re a simple couple; farmers, perhaps, living off the land and your love. Simple and peaceful, days filled with hard work and lazy nights. A farmer and his wife. 

Then you reach your destination – a beautiful, picturesque creek – and Steven removes his bayonet from the sling across his back, and the fantasy shatters. 

"I assume you know how to work a knife,” he questions with a raised brow, lifting the sharp end of his bayonet. 

“Of course. Prod with the pointy end.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Eloquently spoken, princess.”

“But completely correct, no?”

“As always. Now, firing a bayonet is a completely different skill – your arms must be steady, your eyes sharp and true, your grip strong.”

“Quite a lot,” you say, suddenly nervous as he slips a bullet into its chamber. “Are you sure I’ll be able?" 

"I have no doubt!" 

For the next while he teaches you determinedly – demonstrating the proper stance, showing you how to reload, warning you of the noise that would follow. Half of you listens eagerly, excited to finally learn something you deemed worthwhile – the other half is completely and utterly taken by your mentor. 

So when Steven asks minutes later if you’re ready to shoot, one can understand why you’re reluctant to try.

"Perhaps I can simply watch again?” You squeak as he nears. Oh, gods, you don’t want to lose a finger. Or a hand! Although they _are_ already as injured as they could possibly be. “I’m still quite unsure…" 

"Would it help if I guided you?” He says, slipping behind you swiftly. The heat of him against your back makes you swallow your refusal. “It’s not all that difficult, dove. I’ve explained all you need to know.”

And you had only barely been listening. 

“I… I suppose.”

The heavy, cold weight of the bayonet is placed into your bandaged hands. You fumble with it for a second, shifting into a weaker, unsure version of the stance Steven had displayed earlier. But warm hands find your shoulders not too soon after, pulling your shoulders straight. One hand presses itself to the middle of your back, forcing you to stand tall, and you pretend that your sudden shortness of breath is completely to blame on the warm weather. 

“Stand tall and proud, dove,” he murmurs lowly. “You’re a rebel, after all." 

Your heart stops in your throat. _You’re a rebel._ You’re one of them. There’s a tightness in your throat, a deep, profound relief at having found your place. Your place at his side, your place in a position where you could help your people. 

There’s another steady exhale from behind you; slowly, Steven’s arms come to rest against yours, hands clasping your own, and he _must_ know the effect his touch has on you. That _all_ of him has on you. 

"Aim.”

A tree across the tiny, trickling stream, thick and rough. In the middle, a knot larger than your head. 

“Inhale deeply.”

You do as he says; the smell of sweet water and fragrant grass fills your senses – and, deeper still, the musk of leather and tobacco. 

His finger begins to press down on the trigger. You force your eyes to stay open. 

“Squeeze.”

The bang echoes and echoes and echoes – a flock of screaming birds rise through the trees and into the sky. Smoke erupts from the spot you’d shot – not the tree you’d been aiming for, but it’s sister next to it. And much too low, too. But Steven is laughing proudly behind you and there’s this exhilaration in your veins and your hands are shaking but you’ve never felt more powerful in your entire life. 

“Well, I suppose as far as first times go…” You grin, chest heaving. 

“We’ll make a soldier of you yet!" 

"My aim is positively horrendous!" 

He hums, rumbling and low next to your ear, and you’re certain that if you shot another bullet right at that moment you would have faltered and made more of a fool of yourself. “Takes practice, dove. I myself am more talented in the ways of a sword…”

Yes, you don’t doubt it. You remember Steven the day you were taken; sitting atop his stallion of midnight black, bayonet propped in hand. He’d been terrifying — but the brute strength that lay in him, that rippled in his arms and chest and legs, would do catastrophic damage with a sword. Against bullets, though, he’d have to equip himself with a shield.

"Another?” His arms tighten around you, and you swallow. You want to feel his arms around you again, in that way that they had been when he’d first kissed you. Grasping your waist as if you’d disappear. “______?" 

"Pardon?" 

"Would you like to shoot another?" 

You turn your head to look at him, swallowing, but your adrenaline has severed the connection from your brain to your mouth, it seems. 

"I’d like you to kiss me again." 

A thick brow quirks up. His lips spread deviously. "Oh?" 

"Don’t make me repeat myself, please,” you say desperately, “My courage has almost worn off.”

“What cruel man would keep a princess from what she desires most?” But he still hasn’t bridged the gap. You turn fully in his grasp, resting your hands on his shoulders – and, ever so impatient, you push yourself up to his lips. 

Like water after traipsing the desert. Lips the tiniest bit chapped, but always gentle in their pursuit of your affection. Hair silky between your fingers, chest firm and strong and supporting most (if not all) of your weight. Every bit of him instills safety in you. 

“You’ll lose your balance like that, dove,” says Steven, panting. “A man is weak in the arms of the woman he desires.”

“You wouldn’t catch me?” You play. 

“Oh, I would.”

You follow him when he finds a place on the ground, tugging you eagerly back up to his lips like he’d _truly suffered_ in the short time you’d been apart. The grass is fragrant around you, scratching skin where your dress had been hiked up higher. With one leg on either side of Steven’s lap and your lips seized by his, you’re reminded of the last time you found yourself in such a position – the night of Rumlow’s attack, in Steven’s personal quarters. Things change so sweetly, don’t they? 

This kiss is rougher now – just as passionate, just as fulfilling, but there’s a heat in your stomach brought on by him, by the slide of his tongue in your mouth, the grip of one hand on your hip and the other against your back. You find yourself gasping into his mouth, breathless and giddy on love, and he isn’t much better off. 

When oxygen becomes a necessity you pull away. Albeit, reluctantly. The bayonet lies off to the side, completely and utterly forgotten as a soft kiss is pressed to your nose. You’re content to lay your head on his shoulder, shutting your eyes and inhaling deeply. This is more peace than you’ve been afforded in the last few months. 

When the hand on your back stutters in its motion and Steven’s breathing becomes shallow for a moment, you know something trifles him. You lift your head and look up at him expectantly – though he’s already gazing down at you, face tender. 

“I have found something in you that I had thought was lost to me,” he murmurs.

"I know,” you say, voice equally as soft. 

“The next few months will be hectic. Once we join Pierce and the other allies, we begin planning for a coup. It’ll be dangerous – and… And should I lose you…" 

"You won’t." 

His answering exhale is shuddering and deep — and your heart aches for him, this damaged man who has had to take up responsibility where you had not been able to. **_You never stop being the Captain, do you?_** _It’s not a job that offers time away._

You want to share his burden, you realise. You want to take this cloying weight from his shoulders and help him carry it. You want him to confide in you, to trust you, to…

Cerulean eyes find their place upon your visage. "I’ll need someone to rule beside me when we take Azureal.”

 _When_. Not if. 

“You’re keeping my father’s system of rule?” You say curiously, hands faltering on his shoulders. “I had thought that, well…" 

"A new council will be added.” He shrugs. “I’ll have more power, but not enough power that my choice is the be-all end-all. Placing that much power in one man’s hands…" 

You hum. "I’ve only known it to successfully work once. Wakanda, have you heard of it?" 

Steve shakes his head. "Don’t know much past the Indigo Sea.”

“It’s a wonderful kingdom,” you gush, thinking back to the sunny skies and tall, fruit-bearing trees illustrated in books; the colourful clothing of the people and the strange contraptions they used with such ease. There, they didn’t have the same stigmas with women in positions of power – why, it was the King’s own sister who invented such gadgets! “The King is a just, kind man. He controls every choice made but his people are happy and thriving. Granted, his own cousin attempted a coup…”

“Power does strange things to people.” He stops, head tilted – and you watch with slight apprehension as he begins to take you in, calculated and delicate all at the same time. What on the gods’ green earth is he doing? “I want you to be the one beside me, _____. Be my queen.”

 _I beg your pardon?_ It seems you’d completely forgotten about his first insinuation. 

“Steven, I…” It’s the title you’ve always wanted. Since you were a child you’ve been working towards it, tottering about in your mother’s oversized heels and trying on her crowns when your governess wasn’t looking. You had dreamt of the happy, perfect kingdom you would oversee with your future husband – but that had been before reality was oh so bittersweetly revealed to you. 

Your mother didn’t have any power, anyways – not really. You learned that when you were 16 and your governess began to teach you about your kingdom in depth. _A patriarchal monarchy_ are the words she used. 

In short: your mother’s job was to stand beside your father and smile and nod when it was needed, looking prim and proper and regal. She supported your father, helped ease his responsibility with her love, but she had no true influence. And although you had various academic studies, you were ultimately being groomed for the same thing. 

And this happy, perfect kingdom you hoped to rule doesn’t exist. Famine, drought, homelessness. Your family had taken everything from the people that deserved it, and just that simple thought is enough to have guilt turning your stomach – but when you look at this hope-filled man in front of you, this golden-haired soldier, you want to do your duty as Princess to this great land. To serve and protect, because gods know you hadn’t been able to do it for years before. 

“I don’t know what you know,” admits Steven. “Politics and etiquette and international relations – I’ll be lost. I need your support.”

“The queen has no power,” you say. “My mother is merely a figurehead.”

“Things will be different, dove.” He hesitates then. “I didn’t mean what I said that night, I promise you. Where you are clueless in combat you more than make up for it in wit, kindness, justice. That’s what this kingdom needs.”

You laugh breathlessly, your chest tight with nerves and this strange, pulsing sensation that you suppose must be that fluttering little emotion they call love. “Being your queen means marriage, you know." 

His eyes crease at the sides when he smiles. "Marriage doesn’t scare me, dove. Least of all to you.”

“And there will be those that object to the idea of us.”

“Let them.”

You walk home with the light of love on your brow, clandestine glances traded when you thought the other wasn’t looking. Your happiness must be evident to anyone who crosses you – Sir Samuel, in fact, looks as if he has to physically restrain himself from teasing as he walks past. And when Steven returns to his duties and you return to Natalia, she only takes one look at your face before attempting to hide a smirk. 

“And how was your lesson, little doll?" 

You clear your throat. "Very informative.”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ it was–" 

You erupt into a fit of giggles like a pair of children, and everything feels like it’s _finally_ fitting into place. 

Evening comes as a blanket of lavender and magenta above your heads, shrouding everything in a dull pink-orange glow. To your delight, Steven waits outside your tent to invite you to dine with him and his generals, and you eagerly accept. 

You dine on the same stew of root vegetables and beef, but between secret smiles over the top of your bowls and the bumping of knees underneath the table, you can’t help but think it tastes better than ever. The cacophony of laughter and singing around you fills your heart with warmth, and not for the first time, you thank the gods that your carriage had been ambushed all those months ago.

“Will you stay?” Steven asks when all the plates are cleaned away and the dancing’s begun. 

“To dance?”

“You know, I haven’t seen you dance _once_ in your time here.”

“This dancing isn’t the kind I was schooled in,” you say, eyeing the quick, hasty movements and extravagant spins, the music quick and playful on the fiddle being played across the bonfire. "I’d make a fool of myself.”

“Ah, nonsense–” Any argument that might’ve followed is completely dissolved into the air when he tugs you close. “This dancing doesn’t have any rules, dove. You let the _music_ guide you.”

“But– _ah_!” Without another word, you’re pulled into the fray, somehow weaving in and out of the other dancing couples with no problem – you pass a squealing Natalia and Clinton, spinning so fast that they’re almost a blur. Your steps are erratic and unpredictable, and for a moment you’re terrified that you’ll step too close to the fire, or knock so hard into another pair that you’ll injure yourself, but–

But Steven is holding you close, eyes shining and shoulders jumping with laughter under your hands. Threading through the dancing pairs and spinning you so quickly that you’re dizzy with it. 

“A fool, you said?” He shouts over the music. “What a liar you make, princess." 

"I’ve learned from the best, haven’t I?" 

When the fiddle finally stops in its tracks you almost collapse into his chest, giggling madly, delirious off bonfire smoke and dancing. And you’re still laughing when you break away from the bonfire and begin towards his tent.

"I’ve never danced like that before! Gods, back in the palace every dance had so many steps and movements and _rules_ and you had to keep a straight face and–” You sigh, beaming up at him. “Promise me we’ll dance like that every day when we take Azureal.”

“I’ll have a dance made in your name, dove,” he promises, grinning fondly as you skip ahead to his tent. “And we’ll dance it on our wedding day.”

Oh, the thought has blood rushing to your cheeks. 

“With you, all dressed in white, and a crown upon your head." 

"And you, with the King’s cloak on your shoulders.” Almost unconsciously, you sigh. Your hands find their place on his biceps. “You’ll be a wonderful king, Steven.”

“And you’ll be an even better queen.” His eyes drift to your lips. “Will you bed with me tonight?" 

You raise a brow. "Is that a command, captain?" 

"I don’t think I _have_ to command you." 

That night you sleep close to him; with your head on his chest and your hands intertwined. His heartbeat thuds in your ear, repetitive and calming, and as you drift off you realise that you’re happier than you’ve _ever_ been. 

X

The calmness of dawn is brought to a screeching halt by an echoing, bone-shaking horn. And then:

” _Ambush_!“ 

Steven’s up like a shot, his bayonet plucked from his bedside as he storms outside. Already there’s the sound of running and shouting outside – with sleep-ridden, desperate limbs you climb from bed and tie your shoes on, listening anxiously for anymore information–

But you don’t need to strain an ear because Steven comes marching in second later with James at his side, eyes wild. James speaks frantically and quickly, hands moving with every word–

"Get rid of Rumlow,” Steven orders lowly. “We can’t have him alive. Not when he knows about the princess.”

“And then?" 

Steven doesn’t answer. Though that’s answer enough for James, who, after staring wide-eyed at his captain for a few seconds, steels his face and nods. "It’ll be done.”

And then you’re alone. 

“Steven, what’s happening?" 

"Ambush,” he answers gruffly, flitting around the room, pulling things from spaces you hadn’t even known existed. Scrolls and piles of papers and old letters – all are left at the mercy of fire when he strikes a match and lights them. “Azurealean soldiers. Don’t know how they got our position – here, c'mere–" 

You don’t know what to say. Too many thoughts are filling your mind – _what are we going to do, where are we going to go, why is he undoing my bandages, what will happen to us after–_

The skin on your hands is raw and red with dried blood, swollen and sore. But you can’t even focus on that pain – you’re confused, and scared, and Steven looks like he’s prepared to fight to the death but you won’t let him, not now, not ever–

"We have to move quickly–” There’s a tearing sound. He’s ripped a strip from the bottom of his shirt, and before you even register what his train of thought could _possibly_ be, he’s wrapping your wrists together at the small of your back. 

“What are you doing?!”

“They’ll capture us.” His words are so fast that they seem to melt together. “They’ll capture us and they’ll capture you and if you’re not tied up they’ll easily suspect you of treason–" 

"Too many people know where my loyalties lay, I’ll be found out either way–!”

“No-one in this camp would _dare_ reveal you. Now come on.”

Outside is utter chaos. The silence that had so peacefully lulled you to sleep is nowhere to be found. In its place, all that is left is orders shouted and commands screamed, fear and anxiety turning the air acrid and sour. It’s painfully clear that you were caught off-guard; soldiers run about, half-armoured, delirious and sleep trodden. Some have already mounted their horses, some are still organising their weapons, but Steven pays them no mind.

“Where are we going?” You demand, quickly growing panicked. “We need to _leave_ , Steven, _flee–_ " 

"We can’t." 

He’s leading you to the hounds’ tent. Where Rumlow had been housed before he was… disposed off just minutes before. The thought is not comforting at all. 

"W-what do you mean we can’t? Surely – surely there’s a path left uncovered, o-or a river to swim down, or–”

He’s tying your hands to the pole, smearing mud from the ground on your dress and skin. 

“Will you stop?!” You cry, then. “Stop and–" 

"Listen to me!” He roars, seizing your shoulders. “There’s no _time_ for it. They’ll be on us within the minute. When – when they take you to your father, you tell them we treated you something terrible. Like a dog, like less than human. You have the injuries on your hands and the dirt on your dress to prove it. Mention nothing of–" 

"Steven!” A voice yells. “They’re coming from all angles! We’re being surrounded–!" 

You whimper. Steven’s hands clutch the sides of your face. 

"Hush now,” he says hurriedly, but his soothing doesn’t work quite as well when he himself is on the verge of panic. “Mention nothing of our plans, mention nothing of _us,_ my love _._ They’ll kill you for it surely.”

“I love you,” you gasp out. You feel as if your chest is caving in – exactly how you’d felt that night when you had been seized by Steven and his men, the same terror clawing up your throat. This time it was unbearably cold, taking each of your limbs in its terrible grasp, because you know that they will be executed. Publicly, _gruesomely_. And you will be alone in that dreadful kingdom, under a dreadful king. “I love you–" 

"I love you too,” he interrupts, lips twitching up into a sad smile. That smile makes your throat choke around your sob, makes your stomach tighten and roll unpleasantly. “More than I ever thought possible, _____, you must know. If – if this is the last you see of me–" 

"It _won’t_ be.” But even _that_ sounds like a lie on your lips. He knows that – and so, no answer is returned to you. He simply surges forward, presses a hurried, sloppy kiss to your lips – distantly, you hear a sniffle. You’re unsure whether it comes from you or him. The thought makes your tears flow harder. 

Then, he runs off into the fray of fighting, the bayonet you’d been holding only hours earlier gripped in his hands. Leaving you standing alone and tied to the pole, wrists bound behind you and tears tickling your cheeks, bile threatening to rise in your throat.

The sun is blood red as it rises. 


	5. part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You come to terms with the execution looming above your head, pray in gratitude for your safe return, and spend one last night with your love.

It feels wrong.

The silk on your skin, baby-skin soft. So light, like a barely-there kiss. Like the last spring wind before summer starts, still managing to cling to the hindmost dregs of winter frost — coating your skin in a layer of cool, before the warmth of your blood seeps into the fabric. Silk, you think, is like those oils they used to dot on your skin every morning after scrubbing you down and combing your hair. Lavender and lemon and eucalyptus, sweet almond and coconut. Cold, first. Warm, after.

Wrong. It’s all  _ wrong _ .

You don’t remember much of the journey back to Azureal. A soldier cut your bindings and scooped you up when you didn’t respond to his hurried shouts — your mind had been filled with such chaos that it simply went blank. 

He had carried you through the wreckage that once was a beloved camp — tents aflame, bodies strewn across the ground, people tied up and shoved into jail wagons. You couldn’t hear anything despite the devastation around you. It was as if the entire world had gone silent, save for a high-pitched whistling sound that you couldn’t rid yourself of no matter how long passed.

The riding didn’t take long, though of course you were hardly aware of your surroundings. Maybe it was a day. Maybe it was three. All you know is that when you reached the palace, the first thing they did was send you to the palace physician. A man you've known since you were a child, kind and pitiful.

You spend a day or two in induced unconsciousness while the physician and his assistants cure you of your ailments — of which there are not many. A cut or bruise there, a dullness to your skin and hair, maybe. Malnutrition. The gashes across your palms. After that, they hand you over to your handmaidens.

They bathe you like they did before. Not in a river or a tin bucket like you’d been doing for the past year or so — but in those behemoth sunken pools in the bathing room, rectangles cut into pale, polished marble. Columns rise from the ground, great grand stacks that rise to the ceiling far above your head, carved with stories of the gods and their acolytes. 

You’ve never quite had the connection with the gods that your mother has, but you don’t think they’d be content with such sizeable shows of affluence when the rest of their people suffer. The grandeur, in truth, makes you sick to your stomach, but you’re so poignantly empty and — and  _ dispassionate  _ that you simply let the handmaidens do what they please with you.

They peel the bandages from your hands and wash the blistered, raw skin with tea tree, apply ointments that smell of yarrow and calendula, whispering amongst each other all the while. Every inch of your skin is shaved with sharp, flat silver blades and scrubbed all over with sugar, and then moisturised with shea butter. They unbraid your hair from its messy updo and brush it, quick and efficient but mind-bogglingly rough, nothing like Natalia.

(Natalia… What had happened to Natalia—?) 

Oils are poured onto your locks, and then your hair is washed with the pomegranate soap specially sent to the palace every month. 

They do your makeup. 

You’d been kidnapped. Almost murdered by an assassin sent by your own father. Fallen in love. Had the man you love taken from you by your father, most certainly planned to be executed publicly along with the rest of your friends, and you’d have to  _ watch _ . And now they’re doing your makeup, like these pigments and powders are really so important in the grand scheme of things, like the world will topple on its head if your skin isn’t clear of blemishes and bloody dullness—! 

But still, you sit at your vanity. Completely immobile, a marble bust being painted, and you watch them cover you up. Rouge on your cheeks and lips, kohl on your lashes, cream under your eyes to conceal the darkness that had grown there. They string little flowers into the plaits they so expertly craft onto your head, slip a shimmering silk gown over your body. It’s a soft shade of beryl, the same hue as the sea, as a river, as… a pair of familiar blue eyes.

When you look in the mirror again, you’re the same you as you were before the world turned upside down. But there’s something in you that’s changed — a sadness, an awareness, an understanding. A stubbornness brought on by the very man who’d ran from your arms and into the fray, who’d left you with nothing but a hasty kiss and a declaration of love. You close your eyes at the thought — it wouldn’t do you good to cry now. Not when these girls have worked hard to bring you up to standard once more.

Somewhere between clasping a golden necklace around your neck and fitting your tiara upon your crown, you catch sight of the fresh bandages on your hands. With the superior medical care in the palace, along with the constant attention from the palace physician, you’d surely be healed with the next few sennights. Nothing would tell of your time with the rebels except for a few shiny gash-shaped scars and a permanent bumpiness on your palms, hardly noticeable. But you would carry the memories with you in your mind, always. You don’t think you could forget if you tried.

After dressing you up like a fine china doll they leave you to waste away in your solar, sitting on a chaise lounge that had once been your favourite. Like your dress, it’s a soft, stormy kind of blue, soft to the touch, almost unbearably comfortable against your bottom. You haven’t felt —  _ seen  _ — luxury like this in a long time. 

Your room had been cleaned in your time away, it seems. The book you’d left open on your table has been pushed back between two large tomes on your bookshelf; the sheets on your bed folded and pressed to perfection. Not even a speck of dust has marred the dark mahogany windowsill — and the thick pillars that support the ceiling are polished, gleaming. This had once been your favourite place to be. Where you could shed your quiet, obedient demeanour and settle in with a book and a blanket. You often sewed here, too, though not completely out of fun — where your father had war councils and the like, you were expected to embroider and stitch.

Gods, you hate it. You hate every inch of embossed wallpaper, every gilded spine of every History book. You  _ loathe _ the thick velvet curtains pulled back, you hate the view of those expansive gardens. You cannot revel in luxury knowing what you now know. 

And you  _ despise _ this encroaching, gods-forsaken  _ silence _ ! You want to scream, shout, sob, tear the dull pain from your chest with your bare hands and scatter it to the floor. You feel trapped – a little bird in a gilded cage, the glinting gold of freedom held just up and out of sight. 

_ Is he here? _ Your mind wonders. You almost curse yourself for thinking of him so quickly. You'd hoped for another few hours of (miserable) ignorance before the last nail in the coffin was knocked in.  _ In this castle, in these dungeons? Maybe they took him to the catacombs, instead. Maybe… maybe he never arrived at all… _

You spring up like a children's toy, a jack-in-the-box, and find your chest too constricted. The corset's strings are pulled tight, but even as your feverish fingers tug at the tail of your spine, even as the fabric loosens just the tiniest bit, your lungs still gasp for breath. Those pesky tears are back to tormenting the expertly-placed kohl around your eyes—

And it's a panic. Clutching the edge of your table, tripping over your own feet to fling open a window and breath in the fresh air. 

_ You can't be left to your own devices, not now _ , you realise, gasping, a hand to your heart and a hand to your stomach.  _ If you think too much on it– _

There's a gentle knock on the door. "Your Highness?"

It’s Elizabeth. One of your many handmaidens.

You screw your eyes shut, fingernails scratching painfully against the wood of your mantelpiece. 

“Y-yes?”

_ Curses  _ — you sound as strained as a strangled cat. But this faceless woman’s voice gives you something to latch onto, desperate for any succour from your own mind, and you find the pain in your chest steadily diminishing with every second — not quite fading into non-existence, but becoming more manageable. 

“My lady,” she continues, soft, “Your king father and queen mother await you in your mother’s solar.”

“Of… of course.” 

Gods, even your voice has started to sound alien. So lacklustre and flat, now, hardly telling of the turmoil your brain threatens to molder under. You almost preferred it when it sounded like your throat was closing up — at least then you felt something, if only  _ embarrassment _ .

You’d never quite been good at acting — though is that what this is? It doesn’t seem like acting. It simply appears that you’ve lost the will to be energetic. All zeal and ardor is desperately trying to distract your mind from the fact that your love could be… your love could be....

You walk through the corridors with four handmaidens behind you. They bow their heads and stare at the ground and you find yourself fighting to not do the same. How many people are in their families, you wonder? Do they live under one single roof, fighting for scraps, spending all their money on servant’s clothes so they can simply exist in the same space as you? So they can exist in this skeleton of marble and gold and powdered noses and too-tight corsets? 

Your attention is drawn from the women behind you to the path in front of you. The hallways haven’t changed. You don’t suppose they would — what reason would your disappearance give to change the decor? All these family portraits and gilded candelabras, cardinal red carpet underfoot. Hanging chandeliers of cut crystals, curtains thicker than the furs that the rebels used to keep warm. You swallow bile, and try to subdue the guilt that has taken root in your stomach. A foul, bitter, encroaching feeling that makes your hands shake, a feeling produced by the constant, haunting reminder that your people are dying while you live in the lap of luxury.

Your parents quarters are hidden behind two large mahogany doors — almost too grand for their own good, twice your height and carved deeply and meticulously. The handles are gold and polished daily, twisted into the shape of swirling, curling waves. The two guards on duty simultaneously pull open the doors for you, and once you’re inside, shut them behind you, leaving you without your handmaidens. 

Alone. You almost miss their silent presence.

You walk through the large greeting room of your parents’ quarters; decorated magnificently, as everywhere else. Bunches of brilliant white lilies are set in crystal glass vases — atop the small table, atop the accompanying cabinets… It seems as if they’d already begun mourning you.

The doors to the solar are already open. Through them, you see the deep red of drawn velvet curtains, the precise and particular Toile de Jouy pattern of the seats, the two prized bayonets above the fireplace — and when you step through the doorway, heart in your throat, you find your father, mother, and (curiously) your father’s advisor, one Jasper Sitwell.

You inhale deeply — feeling much sicker than you had even when the rebels had been overpowered — and setting a smile upon your face. “Your Majesties.”

You bow, as is customary — though it is shaky and imperfect from almost a year of disuse — and then you accept the embrace your mother lays upon you. She’s weeping and crying, clutching you close and pressing your face towards her neck like you’re a babe again. And although your eyes sting and your lungs constrict with the effort to not cry, although you are secretly glad to be back in such a familiar hold, you can’t help but hate her too.

Because she is soft and gentle and kind and yet, you’re not sure whether you can trust her anymore. You’re not sure that she’s as soft and gentle and kind as she’s always appeared, and your mind scurries between wanting to believe she is and refusing to. With her soft, manicured hands and gentle brow, her clear skin, the delicate lines at the corners of her eyes, one would think you  _ mad  _ for insinuating her involvement.

“The gods have returned you safely,” she sobs, pulling back to stare at you with shining eyes. She holds your face in her hands, cupping your jaw like you are a precious gem, a rare and beautiful stone, the crown jewel. “My darling girl. Had you not drawn those rebels away that night...”

They wouldn’t have killed her. Just like they didn’t kill you. 

Still, you swallow your doubts and smile weakly. You hope that your fatigue can be excused as distress from your captivity or something of the like — a quick glance at Sitwell shows well the pity painted on his tanned face, and your chest swells with relief.

“And I would do it one hundred times more,” you say truthfully, clasping your hands over hers. Because you met friends there. You met Steven… Determined to keep your act afloat, you shift your eyes to your father — who, you notice with an abundance of repugnance, has the  _ gall  _ to appear tearful. “Father—”

And you surge forward as if taken hold of by your emotions, winding your arms around his neck, burying your face into the golden epaulettes draped on his shoulders. The smell of lemongrass makes your head spin, and not pleasantly; suddenly, you are simply all too aware of everything happening all at once, every noise, every  _ movement _ . 

In your hurry to greet your parents, in your steadfastness to uphold your act, you'd forgotten just how thin the ice you danced over was. Should one mouth out of thousands seized speak about your involvement with Steven you'd be as dead as a doorknob before the next sunrise. And now – just as you had been at the beginning of your time in the rebel camp – you find yourself looking over your shoulder at every corner, wondering if the Kingsguard would slink from the shadows and drag you to the gallows.

“My girl,” your father murmurs, pressing his hand to the back of your head, “My darling daughter. The gods look down on us, surely.”

He pulls back, too, like your mother had done, clasping your hands in his and looking at you with such devotion that for a second – a miniscule second – you truly thought that you must've gotten it all wrong. But then his eyes darken, and you're returned rather gracelessly to the truth. 

"They won't get away with this. I give you my word, daughter."

You swallow. "I have every faith in you, father." Then, realising that more must be said: "Had it not been for you, I don't know what would have happened. How long I would have lasted. An attempt on my life had already been made…" 

If you weren’t looking for it, you would have missed the slight stiffness of your father’s shoulders, or the glance he exchanges with Sitwell while you turn back to your fussing mother. “It’s where I got these wounds.”

“But he failed, of course,” Sitwell speaks up. “This rebel soldier.”

_ Rebel soldier _ . The thought of considering Rumlow a rebel is disgustingly offensive. Nevertheless, you fix a mirage of relief on your face, smiling. “Yes. The — the Captain said I was too valuable to kill. Though he kept me housed with the hounds and—” You feel gut-wrenchingly guilty just  _ thinking  _ about it. But Steven had told you to lie, and lie you shall— “They treated me like an animal. Fed me once every two days and—”

When you break off to wipe at your eyes, it’s not from the trauma like they think. You’re genuinely sickened by the lies you have to spout — a complete disservice to the men and women who’d lain down their lives for the sake of good, to the people who lived everyday in squalor.

Your mother laments into a silken handkerchief she’d procured from the table beside her. You’re unsure of whether she’s crying for the ‘horrors’ you’d endured or the fact that you were scarred for good now — both mentally and physically. 

_ How hard will it be now,  _ you wonder idly, _ to have me married off? _ Surely every prince this side of the Indigo Sea has heard of your plight, and a sullied princess is  _ not  _ a prized bride.

_ Steven hadn’t cared, _ a voice in your head whispers.  _ He had loved all of you _ .  _ He had protected you. _

The tears begin again — your mother takes you in her arms once more, soothing you with a soft hand to your hair, only pulling back to hold your face between her hands like she did earlier.

“You must give thanks for your safe return,” she says firmly, staring into your eyes. “Visit the temple and pray, my daughter — tonight, after dinner. I have begged each day for you to come back, and the gods have rewarded my perseverance. Now you must show your gratitude.”

“I—I will,” you promise, clasping your hands over hers. Then, significantly more befuddled, you look over to your father and Sitwell. “And of course, I’m grateful to the gods for returning me — though… I can’t help but wonder how you knew where they’d be.”

Another set of glances exchanged — an invisible message, an  _ understanding _ , passed between the two men. Sitwell gives the tiniest, most miniscule nod of his head — so small, in fact, that you’re almost convinced that you imagined it — and your father meanders forward to clap a hand to your shoulder.

“My girl, you must recover before you throw yourself back into politics,” he says. “We will feast and then you will go to pray — anyhow, the rebellion will come to a halt tomorrow afternoon. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

You suddenly lose all feeling in your limbs. You have to keep your knees locked tightly to stop yourself from becoming a puddle on the ground, but your hands fall limply to your sides. “S-so soon?”

_ No. No, please. Give me time to do something, anything, give me time to  _ **_see_ ** _ them before— _

“We’d thought to drag their sentences out, at first — to make them pay for the years of tyranny and injustice—”

How  _ dare  _ he—

“— but we decided to get it over with. The captain will be executed tomorrow. His chain of command and the rest will be judged in trial over the next few months or so. We’ll finally have peace, hm?”

_Judged in trial._ _Unfair trial_ goes unsaid, but it’s heavily insinuated.

“Finally,” you repeat. Your subsequent smile is weak. “Yes, finally.”

x

When your father had said feast — when your mother had said  _ dinner  _ — you thought they’d meant something small. Something small, and intimate; a few of your father’s council members, the captain of his guard, perhaps, as well as some distant relatives and the like.

This is not small. Or intimate. No, not at all. You’d guessed as much when your handmaidens had revealed that your mother would like you to redress into your celebratory garments, complete with one of your many tiaras. You had to bathe  _ again _ , with an entirely new hairstyle and face of makeup —  _ something subtle yet refined,  _ your mother had apparently requested, something that would go with your gown.

Because the gown is the show stealer, of course. Pale gold, composed of two pieces — a long slip dress of embroidered flowers and prayers of goodwill, birds and clouds and everything in between; and an equally as embellished thin outer garment, almost like a robe. This style is foreign, but has spread like wildfire through the entire continent. The  _ rich _ continent, of course, brought over by traders and ladies from across the Indigo Sea. Around your neck and from your ears hang diamonds; your tiara is gold and diamond-encrusted to match.

You find yourself staring at it in the mirror. Transfixed by the sparkling gems, sickened by the glamour. It is nice to be cared for again, in some way — no river baths, no scratchy clothing, a full belly. It is disgusting in equal measure.

The banquet hall — the largest one — is full to the brim. Lords and ladies and dukes and duchesses from far and wide, relatives you’ve never seen or heard of before, representatives for kings and queens across the sea. The second you enter — your title and presence announced — you’re bombarded from every direction. One person is clutching your hands, wishing your good health; another is calling your name over and over, desperate to tell you just how happy they are that you’ve returned well. 

You’re reminded of your first entrance to the rebel camp — how, for a heart-stopping moment, you’d felt like you were floundering, mouth deep in metaphorical mud.  _ At least then,  _ you think idly,  _ the rebels had meant their threats. Here, each wish of health and kindness is a grapple for attention, for power, for favour. _

(Steven had been your one constant, then. The one substantiality at your disposal, the only thing for you to ground yourself to. But now...)

You find your place beside your mother, beside your father’s left side. On the table lies a feast for the gods: thick, fluffy bread rolls, slabs of dandelion yellow butter. Shining sausages bursting with fat, expertly blended soups in every flavour and colour imaginable, salads and orange-yellow cheeses, dishes of brined olives and sundried tomatoes — platters of golden roasted potatoes and whole roasted and stuffed chickens. A cornucopia is the centrepiece, spilling candied fruits and nuts over the tabletop, and the desserts have yet to be presented.

Your stomach grumbles — a year of thin, flavourless stew has left you longing for more than broth. And yet, still, guilt holds your stomach in a vice. You don’t think you’ll be able to force down more than a bowl of soup — but the wine? You snatch a glass and drink eagerly. It’s sweet, bitter. Sour. Your mother’s face is just as sour when she sees you finish it.

“I understand that you’ve been through much in the past year,” she says quietly — lips still set in a picture perfect smile — “And I mourn with you, daughter. But appearances are still important.”

The servants refuse to serve you wine for the rest of the night. It’s only sweetened water and cold teas for you, even when the dinner has come to an end and the mingling has resumed. You feel like a spectre, drifting along the edge of the crowd. It seems that the shortage of wine was not extended to  _ everyone _ ; most were merry with drink already, drunk enough to forget the reason why they were here, drunk enough to leave you to your own devices.

The gardens call to you again. The sun is low in the sky, half hidden behind the horizon, setting the sky aflame with orange and purple; you watch from the balcony as the light casts itself over the leaves of hydrangeas and peonies. Wasn’t it just a day or three ago that you were falling asleep in the arms of your love? Singing songs around a campfire, dancing strange jigs, drunk off laughter and love?

_ “I’ll have a dance made in your name, dove. And we’ll dance it on our wedding day.” _

But there would be no wedding day. Not anymore. There’d be no spinning around in circles, narrowly missing the shoulders of Natalia and Clint, no fast-paced fiddle to follow. No collapsing on Steven’s chest, giddy and giggling, cheeks warm and heart warmer—

No, there is only this s low and dragging tune, prim and proper. Violins and pianos and careful dances, stoic faces and appropriate distances. Your fingers tighten on the balcony — if not to calm your heart, then to stall your anger.

Gods, why do you torture yourself like this? Thinking of what once was, what would never be again. It’s as if you  _ enjoy _ making yourself upset — like you take joy in smudging your kohl and ripping your heart from your chest — yet even when you actively try to think about something,  _ anything _ else, your mind finds its way back.

You want to tear that ballroom to the ground. You want to pull up the shining slabs of granite floor and throw them from the balcony; let them shatter to pieces beneath you. You’d take those damned violins and smash them against the walls, snap the strings in half so that they curled up like little springs. The table would be lit with matches, taking every crystal glass and porcelain plate and every piece of cutlery with it.  _ You want them to suffer like  _ **_you’re_ ** _ suffering, to hurt like  _ **_you’re_ ** _ hurting— _

“Princess. I hadn’t the chance to greet you earlier.”

Oh, it never ends. 

You plaster a smile on your face and turn. The man that faces you is old, wrinkling, but the ghost of youth still lives in him; dirtying blond hair, pale skin, blue eyes. He would remind you of an older Steven, if not for the shortness of his face and the cruel upturn of his thin lips. You cast a glance over his shoulder, hoping that if your mother or father happened to pass, you’d be afforded an exit, but—

“That’s quite alright,” you say instead. “Though I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”

“No,” he says, extending a hand. “Pierce. Alexander Pierce.”

The world goes blank.

_ Pierce. _

_... _

_ Pierce. _

_ Pierce. _

_ Pierce. _

_ “Once we join Pierce and the other allies, we begin planning for a coup.” _

_... _

_ "Alexander Pierce is one of our greatest allies, if not the greatest. He’d never betray the cause."  _

But here he is in front of you. Hand still stretched out expectantly. Features cocksure and over-confident. No guilt. No remorse. No regret at the fact that he was essentially sentencing thousands of innocents to their deaths.

“Alexander Pierce,” you repeat, faint. You place your hand in his — watch, sickened, as he lifts it to his lips. “Yes, we’ve never met.”

“And yet, I’ve heard all about you, Princess.”

Had Steven told anyone outside of the camp about your change of loyalties? Surely he hadn’t been so rash. Still — if Pierce knew  _ anything  _ about Steven, he’d know that he would never treat you as terrible as your parents were claiming. You would have to play your cards carefully.

“Oh? Well, only good things, I hope.”

“If you count kidnapping and imprisonment as _ good things _ , Your Highness.”

A fake laugh. “Oh, of course. Of course, yes. It’s all anyone’s wanted to talk to me about this evening.”

“You can hardly blame them.” He is standing  _ much _ too close for comfort. Your skin crawls with the ghosts of one thousand spiders.

You still try a smile, though it is spurious and fleeting. “No, I suppose I can’t.”... “Was there something you wanted in particular, Sir Pierce?”

“No, no. I just wanted to extend my condolences. The rebels, they… they are a plague on our society. I’m only sorry that it took so long to subdue them; and that you were caught in the crossfire, dear princess.”

_ Dear princess.  _ You’re going to get sick all over your pretty dress.

“That’s quite alright, Sir Pierce. No one man is at fault. I’m simply glad that it’s over with, now.” The words fit strangely in your mouth, and, licking your lips, you decide that you  _ really  _ can’t stay any longer. “If you excuse me, Alexander Pierce — I must pray now, and thank the gods for my return.”

“I understand, Your Highness. Have a nice night.”

“And you too, Sir Pierce.”

You stride away from him and even then you feel as if you can feel his gaze on you, crude and cloying, like oil or treacle. You’re stopped by a few patrons of the night, though you bid them adieu quickly — _ I must pray, you see. Forgive me, but thank you for your condolences.  _ They all understand. Religion and power have always been tightly intertwined, after all. A full night of solitary prayer isn’t uncommon, as is your eagerness to reach the temple.

It isn’t until you’re safely corridors away from the banquet that you collapse against the wall, panting, ears ringing. 

Alexander Pierce. This entire time — this entire  _ cause _ , crumbled to nothing but dust and ash by one man trusted by everyone. 

When you sob, clutching your chest, it echoes through the hallways. 

Nobody hears.

x

The Sacred Temple is deep in the catacombs — a web of tunnels that stretch underneath the entire kingdom, and maybe further. Interlinked passages and corridors, secret doorways that end up in more places than you can  _ imagine _ . Some dank and dar and ending in dead-ends, others well-lit and tiled: as is the passage to the Sacred Temple. 

Square, aquamarine tiles cover every inch of floor, wall, and ceiling, illuminated with warm torches. The passage itself stretches far, taking up to 30 minutes to reach the end of, and although it breaks off in multiple places, you know the journey like the back of your hand. 

You came here when you were born; when you were 10 and had your first bleeding; when you were 13 and entered womanhood. And every year you traipsed back and forth for the festivals of the Winter and Summer Solstices to pray for a plentiful harvest and goodwill. 

You emerge from the tunnel just as the moon emerges from the clouds. The pale light of the moon affords you some comfort from the blackness of night. 

The Temple's ceiling is so high it seems to stretch to the sky, with a glass ceiling of a rainbow of colours that — during the day — casts beams of light throughout the entire structure. You’ve always wondered how it was possible, with it being underground, but the ceiling had never been discovered from the surface, so in truth you had no clue where you  _ truly _ were in the kingdom. Another one of life’s mysteries, you suppose. 

The chamber is large and circular, with 7 other dark, vine-entangled doorways positioned at equal intervals. It tells of its age; at the time when the temple was discovered, almost two thousand years ago, it was already millenia old. The other 7 passages have never been explored, but you guess they open up all over the kingdom, if not the continent.

Dark, expertly carved stone pillars hold up arches and barrel vaults, crumbling and eroding in places — plants grow from cracks in the ground, thick creeping vines and roots. And in the centre of the room, the grand centrepiece — a statue of the Mother, the patron goddess of Azureal, almost seven times the size of a fully grown man. Carved with all the love of a loyal acolyte, the same dark stone as the rest of the temple. 

She stands with her arms outstretched, eyes forward and unseeing but  _ wise _ . All-seeing. The Mother, who gave birth to the first of everything. The first human, plant, animal. The bringer of harvests and seasons and  _ justice  _ — what irony that she is the patron goddess of Azureal.

Dripping water is the only thing that permeates the silence, along with the scuffing of your shoes along the dirty, dusty ground.

Now, standing at the entrance to the ancient temple, you feel completely and utterly  _ small _ . A tiny blip in the grand scheme of things. A mere bystander to history. This temple has been here for thousands of years and it would remain for thousands more — a witness to war and famine and death and kings long gone.

Still, you continue forward. You kneel at the Mother’s feet, hands on your thighs. You look up at her, and then you begin to speak.

“I’ve never had the connection to the gods that my mother is blessed with,” you begin, quiet. “I… I falter in prayer. I forget to give thanks for every luxury I’ve been gifted. I rarely ever admit my sins. Sometimes, I—” You break off, throat dry. Your nose and eyes are stinging with the sudden weight of tears. “Sometimes, I wonder if you’re really there.”

The Mother simply stares.

“Before I pray, Mother,” you say, wiping your nose gently, “I have a confession. A confession, and a plea. I confess before you, Mother, that I have been complacent in the oppression of my people. I have lived every opulence there is to be lived, ignorant to their struggle. I want to make it right — I  _ need _ to. It is my duty as princess and citizen. 

“I’ve fallen in love,” you continue — and your chest  _ floats _ with the revelation. You take a shuddering breath with it, laughing at your own relief, pressing a hand to your chest to steady your beating heart. “There — I’ve said it. I’ve fallen in love with the very man my father intends to — to execute. He fought for justice — he fought for  _ your  _ cause! He is kind and gentle and he  _ loves _ this kingdom more than my father has, Mother, so I  _ beg _ you—”

A watery, desperate sob. Your bottom lip trembles, but you don’t wipe away the tears that begin to pockmark your cheeks.

“This is my plea.” You place your fingers on the stone folds and creases of her dress, squeezing your eyes shut so tight that you see stars, galaxies, clouds. Hoping with every breath you take, with every grain and fleck of life within you that there is someone  _ listening _ . “ _ Please _ , Mother. Let him live on. Let the  _ rebellion  _ live on. Let us carry your message… Let my love live on. This is the only thing I will ever ask of you.”

You inhale shakily, and risk a glance up at her face. A bead of water falls from the ceiling, trailing its way from her sculpted eye to the ball of her stone chin. A tear.

There’s a scuffling behind you — you jump to attention, spinning on your knees to face the only entrance available.

“H-hello?” You call cautiously. Quickly, you whip away the tears on your cheeks. “Reveal yourself, please. I’ve only come to pray.”

A few seconds pass, before a figure in the doorway shifts, moving forward into the dim light. You recognize the pale blue of the dress, the long face and kind eyes. It’s Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth,” you say, tentative as you rise to your feet. “How — how much did you hear?”

She says nothing — just looks at you warily, as if searching you for something you’ve long since hidden away, and you feel sick. If she had heard even a  _ second _ she’d be justified to report to your father— 

“He said you were true. We didn’t believe him at first.”

You still. “...who?”

“Steven.”

“Steven?” You’re surging forward before you know what you’re doing, crossing the room to take her hands in yours. You know you must look in disarray — eyes wide and glassy, hands trembling. But she doesn’t recoil. “You — you’ve spoken to him? Is he okay? What is—”

“He’s mostly unharmed,” she murmurs. “A friend of mine was tasked with delivering food to the prisoners — well, if it could be called food. He asked her where her loyalties lay, and when she said with the rebellion, he begged her to send a message to you.”

“And — and the message?” 

“He loves you more than life itself.”

It’s a strangled noise that leaves your throat. You find yourself releasing her hands and pressing your palms to your eyes, turning on your heel so that she couldn’t see your broken features. Foolish, foolish man. Risking everything to tell you he loves you, on the eve of his own execution. 

Elizabeth clears her throat. “When I — when I heard that, I knew I had to help you see him. You both deserve that much before... before he…” Another awkward lull in conversation. “There are tunnels through here that lead to the dungeons. He’s separated from the rest of his men, with only one guard on duty that sleeps through the night. I can bring you there.”

“Y-you’d do that?”  _ One last night. One last chance. One last kiss.  _ Your heart thunders in your chest, palms perspiring with the anticipation of seeing him again. “I... didn’t know there was such support in the palace.”

“Most of us are lowborn. The guards are loyal to your father, but they fear him more than they love him,” Elizabeth says. She turns, then, nodding towards the door. “Come. You aren’t expected until morning — no-one will notice your absence.”

You let her lead you back out into the catacombs, with only a backward glance at the Mother. She is as indifferent as she’s always been.

_ Thank you. _

X

When Elizabeth had said that the tunnels lead to the dungeons, you’d been expecting a door back into the palace near the dungeons entrance. Not a tiny, hidden latch that opens a trap door into an empty cell, complete with a rickety wooden ladder. Elizabeth goes first to check if the coast is clear — she gives you a hand up, then, ushering you quickly into the musty cell. It’s all cold stone walls and dusty floors; one miniscule barred window that lets in moonlight. Elizbeth swiftly opens the heavy iron door — peeks both ways once more, and with a nod of her head, you both turn left and start down the unlit corridor.

At first, all that is to be seen is the same iron doors on either side of you — one after the other after the other after the other, though they’re all bolted shut. You’re suddenly reminded of all those you knew that could be hidden behind them; Natalia and James and Samuel and Anthony and  _ everyone _ . Everyone you wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to.

Suddenly, the corridor ends in a thin, steep staircase, poorly illuminated and much too rocky to be considered safe; but Elizabeth scurries down it hurriedly. There’s no banister to hold onto, and even the walls are slimy and grimy — but you keep your balance, you  _ must _ , you refuse to fall, not when you’re so close to seeing him again—

The stairs come to an end. A passage runs perpendicular to the staircase — at the end of the right side, a table with a snoring guard. At the end of the left, a single, solitary door. Your heart lurches, but just as you surge towards it—

“Here,” whispers Elizabeth, quietly moving towards the guard. With nimble, artful fingers, she seizes the keys from a loophole of his belt; then, equally as quiet and fox-like, she crosses the corridor to the other side. You follow like you’re one of your father’s new hunting dogs — young and obedient and docile, almost shaking as she unlocks the door with a silent  _ click _ . She presses the keys into your hands, then, peering into your eyes. “The guard doesn’t change until first light. Be gone by then, or—”

“I understand.” You glance at the unlocked door — still tantalisingly closed. But before you can enter… “Thank you, Elizabeth. Truly, you’ll never know how much this means to me—”

“I do,” she says, her smile heartbreakingly sad. “I can see it, princess.”

And with naught more than a nod of her head and a glance to the door behind you, she flutters back up the stairs, and out of sight.

You waste no more time — you push open the door, shutting it just as quickly behind you.

It’s still for a second. And then, from the shadows—

“Dove?”

You let out a great, shuddering cry at the sound of his voice. The dark mass in the corner of the cell rises to his feet, stepping into the light allowed in through his barred window — and there he is. Beard thicker, lip bruised, a cut across his forehead and a ring of purple around his left eye, but—

“Steven—” And it’s almost a whimper, in truth, as you toss the keys to the floor and instead set yourself into the bow of his embrace. “Oh, thank gods—”

He pulls you so tight to him that it’s hard to breathe, so tight that he lifts you from the floor and balances you against his chest. So tight that for a moment you think you’ll simply melt together, become one. There’s a wetness against the crook of your neck that makes you tremble — lungs convulsing with the effort of withholding tears.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he sniffs, crowding a hand around the back of your head. “Never — never  _ hold _ you again— Look at you, you’re divine—”

His lips are on yours before he can finish his sentence — once, twice, three times, stealing every breath you can muster, teeth clashing and lip biting in your hurry to feel each other. Somehow one set of fingers ends up tangled in his hair, the other pressed over his hand on your cheek, and, for the period of time your kiss lasts — could be one minute, or ten — you let yourself forget everything.

Everything. (Even this dank, cold cell.)

Everything. (Even tomorrow.)

He pulls back. His eyes scan the synclines and anticlines of your face — in another universe he’s an artist, you think, rendering your likeness in his brain to recreate it hours later on canvas. That’s how he looks at —  _ studies _ — you. 

“Did you get my message?” He says, smiling tearfully. His shackled hands move fleetingly over your face, as if to imprint the shape and texture of your skin in his mind — cupping your cheeks, your jaw, brushing his thumb over your forehead and wiping away a traitorous tear.

“Yes,” you sniffle — laughing, crying, it’s all the same here— “Yes, yes, I did, my love. And you know I feel the same.”

“I never doubted it for a second.” His smile flickers. “What are you doing here? It’s too dangerous for you to be seen—”

“I don’t care,” you interrupt. “To hell with it. Let them catch me—”

“Don’t say that. You have to  _ live _ .”

“While you die—?!”

“The rebellion must live on in some way,” says Steve, eyebrows furrowing. “It can’t end with us, my love, you have to carry it on—”

“I don’t think I can live without you.” 

It makes him freeze in his tracks, the weakness of your voice. The way it cracks and breaks halfway through, crumbling to grief. You see his own jaw quiver with restraint — eyes growing watery, nostrils flaring.

“Don’t do this,” he pleads — presses his forehead against yours, so close that you can feel his breath against your lips. “Please, I — I can’t go to the gallows a brave man if I know that your death will follow.”

You say nothing. Your frustration is building, brick by brick — your desperation is mounting in equal measure. “I — I have the keys,” you continue hastily, “We can leave. The guard won’t be awake for hours and I’m not expected until—”

“_____.” 

Even you know that it’s all hopeless blabbering. Plans and wishes that would never come to fruition. The truth is that you’d never make it out of the dungeons, never mind the kingdom. He knows this.  _ You _ know this. Still, your body is wracked with sobs. You feel as if your heart will simply continue to tighten and tighten until it bursts and shatters and deteriorates.

“To escape while the rest of my men die goes against everything I stand for,” is whispered against your lips — firm, but distraught. “You know this.”

“I do.” And… and you wouldn’t be able to, either. You know this, too. You wouldn't abandon your people once more — your mind would never allow it. 

"Don't try to save me," he whispers, eyes flickering between yours. "You'll endanger yourself, do you hear?" 

"Like you'd do the same?" Your words are too bitter, maybe, but he only smiles.

"We both know you're much smarter than me, princess."

… 

“I’ve never felt so helpless in my entire life.”

“Not even when you were first learning to pick potatoes?” A weak quirk of his lips that you follow with your eyes.

“It’s a close second, I promise you.”... “It was Pierce that gave up the rebellion. I talked to him — he was a guest at my welcoming banquet.”

Steven curses, crude and snake-like. His shackles rattle as he turns and slams his palm against the wall — you jolt, worriedly peeking out of the cell to check on the security. But nothing has changed. “After everything… after  _ everything. _ ”

“Look at me,” you say, pulling at his arm. “We only have so much time. Don’t spend it on Pierce.”

“Right. Right.”

The silence that follows is melancholy, heavy. 

It’s a strange feeling. You’re both aware that tomorrow, the world will change. You’re both aware that these are your last hours together. But here, in the darkness, with only quiet and moonlight to guide you, it feels as if those last hours could simultaneously last a lifetime or a few seconds.

And then he’ll be gone. Forever. 

Your fingers in his hair tighten. Another kiss is pressed to your mouth, petal soft.

"Steven,” sighed in the air between you, eyes squinting to see each other, “If this is to be our last night together… let me give myself to you.”

His hand stills on your waist, tightens its grip. You see, as he tugs his face away from you, that he is trying to look from one of your eyes to the other — flickering back and forth, eyes narrowed as if it would help enhance his vision. “Are you… are you sure?”

“You’re the only man I want to have, Steven Rogers. In this life and the next, and… if I can make sweet of a sour situation, I will.”

You feel the splashing of a tear where you’ve placed your fingers: across the curves of his cheeks, thumbs smoothing over his raggedy beard lovingly.

“I can’t say that I have much to give, but I will give myself to you as if it were my first.”

You swallow through your own tears. “That’s all I can ask of you, my love.”

And so, that night, you hand your maidenhood to the rebel captain on a silver platter. 

It is dirty, dusty, grimy — and yet, he takes you just as carefully as if he’s laid you down on plush blankets. He’s ever so gentle with your clothes — undoes every button and lace, waits patiently as the dress and robe fall to your ankles, a pool of gold. And when you’re laid bare to him,  _ completely  _ bare, he drops to his knees as if in prayer.

_ You’re beautiful  _ — whispered against the soft skin of your stomach. 

_ I’m the luckiest man alive _ — murmured as his hands rise up, thumb brushing the pebbled tips of your breasts.

_ I love you, I love you, I love you.  _ His lips never falter in their chanting — as if he’s determined to say it as much as he can in what little time he’s been afforded. But he makes good of that little time.

First, with your thighs wound around his head so tightly you blush. His tongue feasting between your legs, a hand stretched up your torso to grasp and squeeze at your chest — he brings you to your first orgasm like this. It catches you so off guard that you yank on his hair  _ much  _ too roughly, wide-eyed and gasping because  _ who knew it was supposed to be like this? _

When he takes you, then, it’s with just as much attentiveness as before. He sits you on his lap so that you’re as close as you can possibly be, and then, for the first time in your life, you’re entered. The stretch burns, at first, but with his fingers working between your legs, you adjust. Every touch is meant to bring you pleasure, and pleasure alone — hands cradling you as if you’re the finest China, the most delicate porcelain, the most precious of jewels. It’s enough to bring tears to your eyes again.

He brings you the most intense, loving pleasure you’ve ever felt, wringing your lungs of all breath, rendering your limbs shaky and jelly-like. With you sitting on his lap, cradling his head to your chest, his arms grasping your back in such a way that you  _ know  _ there will be bruises, marks. Evidence painted on your body for only you to see, even after he — after he—

“Be here with me,” he gasps, “don’t be out there. Keep your mind in here, in the  _ now _ , dove.”

You only clutch him closer — tighter, then, when your pleasure peaks again and you’re left with white vision and goosebumped skin. His own ecstasy follows minutes later, hips held flush, his face buried into the crook of your neck to muffle his groans. The warmth that fills you from the inside out makes you shiver, though the room is now clammy and hot. Maybe that’s just your skin — sticky and sweaty, your tiara askew and hair falling from its pins.

Gods know how long you stay like that for. Maybe an hour, maybe two. You simply hold each other close and breath the same air, exist in the same space. He’s still seated deep inside you, all warm and oddly comforting. In the back of your mind you think, perhaps, that the earth will simply stop spinning if you stay like this. Time will stop. Tomorrow will never come. The infamous rebel captain will live on and on and on.

Alas, the darkness outside begins to lighten, bit by bit.

Steven tries to be strong as you lift yourself from him, as you slip your dress back over your head. He silently helps tie the laces around your back, assists you as you grapple with your slinky robe. You’re not quite so unassailable— your hands shake so hard that he has to help you straighten your tiara, clasping his hands gently over yours, though even after it’s fixed he refuses to let you go.

“Don’t forget me.” And he’s genuinely _scared_ , no matter how well he hides it behind his hardened brow and his sharpened jaw. This rebel leader, the fearsome Captain of the revolution. Death may not scare him but this does — still, you can’t even fathom how he can think that you would _ever._ “Even when — when you’re married and—”

“If I marry another it won’t be out of love,” you say fiercely. “You know it won’t. You’ll always be the first.” He doesn’t look doubtful — only teary, and disbelieving, as if still he can’t quite believe that you’re  _ his _ . You grapple shakily at your wrist, then, unlatching the diamond bracelet hanging there. It had belonged to your grandmother, worn for special occasions only. “Take it.”

“I won’t need it.”

“ _ Take _ it,” you insist. You push it into his hands, close his fingers around it. “P—please. To have something with you when — when…”

His throat bobs as he swallows. It’s too small for his own wrist — he pushes it into the pocket on his chest, right atop his heart. “I love you. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it — I love you too, Steven Rogers.” More tiring, treasonous tears that sting your eyes and your nose and your throat and your  _ mind _ . “I won’t abandon the people of this kingdom. I promise you.”

The sky is a deep, cerulean blue, a burning orange at the horizon. The sun is rising. 

You slip out of Steven’s cell with one more whispered declaration of love that’s more crying than words; you lock his door behind you. You tie the keys back onto the still-snoring guard’s belt loop, and climb those treacherous stairs once more. With a mind so vacant that you hardly take notice of the journey through the tunnel, you soon reach the Temple once more, and rise from the catacombs.

You retire to your quarters. You don’t sleep a wink.   
  



	6. reversed ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it: the end of this series. Kinda bittersweet! But thank you all for your support and lovely comments, both here and on tumblr. This is the bad ending -- I'm not exactly an angst connoisseur but I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think :)

The vomiting starts five weeks after the execution of Steven Rogers. Two weeks after the executions of the members of the rebellion.

You haven’t been eating. Haven’t been sleeping much, either — dreams of stone statues and diamond bracelets and straw blonde hair. Nightmares of axes overhead, the last flash of blue eyes, a final, clandestine mouthing of  _ I love you _ . You’ve confined yourself to your quarters, rejected every call and summons. Your food and drink is brought to you on a silver platter, but you can only humour yourself with a spoonful of soup or a bite of bread.

The waves of nausea come at random — almost every morning you find yourself hunched over your toilet, emptying the little amount you’ve digested. Something as little as an errant smell can turn your stomach, and soon the sound of you retching must alert  _ someone _ , because within a day the Royal Physician is knocking on your door. Your mother stands behind him in your solar, eyebrows upturned in concern.

You imagine you’re a picture. Your last wash was the week prior — your lack of food has painted dark circles under your eyes, cheeks more gaunt than they’d ever been. The curtains have been opened a grand total of three times in the last month, an odd pallor to your skin — your mother gasps as she sees you, clutching a hand to her mouth, but before she can say anything, the Physician enters with his attendants.

They take blood, record your heart rate, pass phrases and speculations over your head to each other, even go as far as to take a urine sample. Poking and prodding and prodding and poking, giving you a second’s warning before jabbing you with a needle someplace.

“She’s malnourished,” one notes, tsking.

“Some food would do her good,” another agrees.

“Sunlight, too.”

The Royal Physician only hums. The tubes of blood and urine are propped on your desk in front of him, and he goes about filling them with strange colour-changing powders and liquids, swirling them around. After one particular test tube turns a bright blue, he freezes — then, with no warning, he calls his attendants out. 

“Wait!” You call after them, “What’s happening—?!”

The door shuts, and you’re left confused, clueless, and alone in your room; half paralyzed with fear and half too far gone to care about the mysterious vial. You wouldn’t put it past the gods to curse you with some incurable disease after the month you’ve had, but your own fatigue drains you of your energy. You resign yourself to leaning against your headboard, sighing.

The curtains — pulled haphazardly apart by the attendants — spill light across the furniture. Threads of gold, it seems, and for a moment you wonder why you hadn’t bothered letting some light in for the past few weeks. Steven had loved the light; it seemed, at times, like it had been made for him. Natalia was the same — red hair like fire in the sun.

A fond smile tugs at your lips — the first in a long time — as you remember them. As you remember  _ him _ ; the ruddy skin and boyish smile, the darkened butterscotch of his beard. The way his chest would rumble with each booming laugh—

(The way his brows furrowed as the axe was lifted above him, the way his eyes found you, panicked and anxious, the sickening thud of his head hitting the floor—)

You take a shuddering, watery gasp, clutching your knees so hard that you feel the skin breaking — but the pain grounds you, tethers you to your reality, allows you to stabilise yourself and your breathing. By the time your mother opens your door — gods know how long later — the only thing you have to show for your breakdown is the disoriented glaze of your gaze.

She shuts the door behind her, but makes no move to walk any further. Only lingers by the door, her back straight and her hands clasped, the image of elegance and refinement, but the only thing on her face is heartbreak. 

She stares. You don’t react, and she begins to speak, the words catching in her throat.

“The physician… He — he says you’re with child.”

You’ll never be able to explain what you felt in that moment. It was as if… as if your heart was being shredded with a needle, like it was being poisoned with a draught so potent that it was seeping down into your stomach and up through your throat. You fought off the deluge of bile forming, clutching your nightgown as if it was the key to your surviving. 

A baby. A child.

_ Steven’s  _ child — the only man you’d ever laid with — growing in you like a little flower bulb, probably no bigger than an apple seed at this point, and yet has already proven itself as stubborn and enduring as its father was. You’re not sure whether you want to laugh or cry at the cruelness of it all; for now, you simply inhale, deep and long, fighting off the stinging of your nose and the weight behind your eyes.

“The child,” your mother takes a shuddering breath, and you realise that your life really is her worst fear. You couldn’t have turned out worse, in her eyes; kidnapped and scarred, and now pregnant out of wedlock? “It’s his, isn’t it? The Captain’s.”

You don’t say anything. You think she’s known, really, ever since that first day when you locked yourself away in this room. 

A choked sob, and the lump in your throat bobs unpleasantly. From the corner of your eye you can see the way she presses the back of her hand to her lips, as if restraining another cry. “Did he… did he lay his hands on you—?”

“Gods, no!” You don’t mean for it to sound so harsh, so loud in the stillness of your quarters, but you’ve been amassing this  _ rage _ and this  _ grief _ for the past 5 weeks and suddenly everything is spilling out of you, water from a broken dam. “He’d never force me. He was a  _ good  _ man. He was—” A traitorous tear trails down your cheek, and as if the unspoken barricade has been lifted, the rest just follow— “He was kind, mother. Just, and  _ gentle _ , and he only wanted what was best for this kingdom and her people and — and he  _ died _ in front of me. He — I watched, I had to watch, and I loved him, I still do—”

And it breaks from you, all of it. Every ounce of pain that you’d subdued for the sake of secrecy returns tenfold with a vengeance, wails and shuddering whimpers. Incoherent praises for your dead love, pleads for your mother to _ understand, please, understand,  _ a fierce and sudden loyalty to the babe growing in your stomach. At some point your mother hesitantly takes you in her arms, and you know she’s torn between duty to your father and duty to  _ you _ .

After all, you’d essentially just admitted to treason. 

“It hurts—” You say, gasping through the breathlessness— “I need him, I — I can’t do this alone. I miss him and I love him and I feel so  _ empty _ —”

“You’re not alone,” she interrupts hotly. “You have me, and your father, and—”   
“Father had an assassin sent to kill me in the rebel camp. Do you really think he’d allow the child of his worst enemy to be born? And by his daughter, no less?”

An ashen layer lays itself over her features. “He —  _ what _ ?”

“You — you didn’t know.” A statement, not a question — a fear, an  _ uncertainty _ , that’s been nagging at your brain ever since you’d returned to the palace. Now, it’s relief that takes its place inside you, and you screw your eyes shut.  _ Not everyone had turned against you.  _ “You didn’t know.”

She shakes her head. “It — it can’t be. It  _ can’t _ —”   
“Our sigil was on his arm,” you argue. “Our royal sigil, mother—”

“Your father wouldn’t  _ do  _ such a thing!”   
You hold your hands out, palms facing the sky. Pink, shiny gashes still scar your skin, bumpy and rolling. They’ve stopped hurting for the most part, but sometimes you can still feel phantom twinges of pain. Your mother’s breath hitches, even now, even after seeing the wounds before. “He came into my tent and caught me unawares. Tried to choke me — he would’ve succeeded, too, if there hadn’t been a blade laying on the floor. Steven bandaged my hands…” A flicker of a fond, nostalgic smile, “He kissed me that night.”

“Oh, my darling girl. The horrors you’ve witnessed…”

“And they shan’t be for nothing,” you say, suddenly determined. After all, if you were to let yourself slip into your emotions, into your grief, who would you be helping? Not yourself. Not your kingdom. Certainly not your child. You’ll always mourn Steven’s loss — but at the same time, you will always carry a piece of him with you. He’d blessed you with a child. He’d opened your eyes to injustice. “Steven didn't die for _nothing_.”

It’s then that you see just  _ where  _ you get your boldness from — your mother, your ever so delicate and poised mother, narrows her eyes and squares her jaw. Not the image of a docile queen that she’s always shown the world — the queen that stood behind your father with only a hand on his shoulder and a smile on her face — but a woman who is strong and resolute and  _ tired _ . So, so  _ tired _ . 

“Your father can’t remain on the throne.”

When your father enters the throne room the next day, fresh from a council meeting, he is taken aback to see you and your mother already present. 

Your mother is sitting on your father’s throne. You’re standing beside her, hands clasped behind your back.

“That’s my seat,” he says, coming to a halt just before the steps. He’s flanked by two of his most important advisors, nine guards between them all. A cursory brow quirks up towards his forehead — he’s unworried. He thinks you’re joking. He thinks this is a  _ game _ . “Far too big for you, my love.”

“I have to disagree,” your mother replies icily. “There is only one imposter here, and it is not me, nor my daughter.”

At this, your father purses his lips, head tilting to the side like he can’t quite fathom just what’s happening in front of him. His advisors exchange wary glances from behind him, before one hesitantly speaks up.

“Your Majesty, surely you don’t mean to disrespect His Majesty the King so blatantly—”

“She does,” you interrupt. “And she is.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Your father finally thinks to ask, tone sour and clearly irked. “Stop these games at once—!”   
“Effective immediately, you are stripped of all titles and lands. You have committed treason against the people of this kingdom, as have your advisory council.” Your mother’s fingers tighten on the armrests of the throne, and she continues: “You have used your position to wreak destruction and poverty. You are no longer fit to rule.”

“You can’t be serious.” He scoffs, then, eyes suddenly on  _ you _ . “And you — have you no respect? Surely you can’t think—”

“ _ Respect _ ?” You echo — his audacity makes you sick to your stomach, and you restrain the urge to place a protective hand over where your child is growing. “Is that what you had in mind when you sent Brock Rumlow to kill me? When you drove thousands of our subjects to death through systematic starvation and poverty? When you  _ murdered _ the only people brave enough to fight against you?”

He sighs, shoulders slumping as if  _ disappointed _ . “I’d hoped that  _ you  _ would have more sense, daughter. Guards: if you will.”

You tense, casting a glance around the room. 12 guards in total line the perimeter of the throne room, plus the extra nine lined up behind your father. They all hesitate to move — some grasping the hilts of their swords, others reaching for the rifles at their side, but they all exchange unsure glances. Nobody even attempts to take a single step.

A shuddering breath, and the tension that’d been building up in you just  _ dissipates _ . Your assumption was correct — these men were more than likely from working class families. They didn’t  _ want _ to work for a tyrant if they could help it. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” your father growls. “Arrest them  _ now _ .”

But the stony-faced guards simply look on. It isn’t until your mother clears her throat that they actually stand to attention, and you refrain from smiling. 

“Detain him, please,” your mother says. “And seek out his advisors, too. Lock them in the dungeons — and do be careful. A transition of power is seldom peaceful.”

“Don’t you dare. I am your  _ king!  _ Don’t touch me! This is a crime—!” But the guards are pulling his wrists behind his back and tying them together at the small of his back, and not so gently, too. His advisors get the same treatment — the head of the Kingsguard (or, Queensguard, rather) sends your mother a nod. A nod of respect, of admiration, and it’s  _ that  _ that seals the deal. Your father and company are carted out of the room with naught more than some curses and ill-wishes.

It doesn’t feel real. Victory, at last. Steven’s wish fulfilled. A new era of peace and happiness for your people.

You could… rest. You could try to begin to move forward with your life.

Your mother takes a shaky breath, turning to cast a glance at you. Her smile is weak with adrenaline. “That… went better than expected.”

“I had faith in you, my queen.”

“‘My queen’,” she whispers to herself, turning back around. “It will take some getting used to.”

It was easy to find the village Steven once called home. A few day’s ride until you reached the forest you’d once traipsed with him, and then another few until you came out the other side. It was easier, of course, escorted by guards, travelling with architects and farmers and common people — no longer fearing persecution by your own crown.

It was soot and ash, just as he’d said. But when you stood before the plot of land that had once been a thriving little village, you see  _ him _ . You see him as a child, him  _ and  _ James, running through the grass and playing as children do. You see his mother baking bread and sewing the holes in his clothes shut. You see his father emerging from the forest with fresh game over his shoulder, greeting his wife with a gentle kiss and a fond smile. You see the life you could have had, maybe.

But there was no time to wallow. You oversaw the development of a  _ new _ village, the kingdom’s new nodal point — day in and day out, balancing both your steady pregnancy and construction. Farms, houses, markets, a town hall, trade routes and alliances — within 8 months, Roger’s Pass was a bustling trade hub. And just one month later…

“Steven James!” You bark, peering out of the kitchen window. “Have you got dirt on your new breeches?”

“No, mama!” 

Your little boy is nearing his 6th year and he’s got  _ all _ the charm of his father. He’s got his features, too — took after your skin and your hair, but the rest is all his father. He’s… unfalteringly gentle, and fiercely kind, and so prepared to do anything to help. Sometimes it scares you — after all, look where it got his father — but at the same time you’re unbelievably  _ proud _ to have raised such a great little boy. The weight of the crown could one day be on his shoulders, but for now—

“I see the dirt, Steven,” you accuse, rounding the doorway of the kitchen to peer into the fields around the back of your little house. The little troublemaker in question has scrambled to his feet in an attempt to prove his innocence, but even from here you can see the grass and mud staining his knees. You shake your head, smiling. “You’ll be helping me wash the clothes later, little one, won’t you?”

He won’t really. He’ll sit beside you with his little hands in the wash basin, but he’ll get so distracted by the soapy bubbles that he’ll end up more clean than the clothes. It’s always the way, isn’t it? 

But he grins anyway — a painfully familiar grin that makes your heart twinge, even so many years later. “Always, mama.”

_ Always. _

  
  
  



	7. upright ending

_ You’re dressed up as if it’s a celebration.  _

_ A buttercup yellow dress lined with teardrop-shaped yellow sapphires. Great, puffy sleeves, and a great, puffy skirt to match. Hair braided and pinned into the shape of a flower, another tiara placed on your head. Elizabeth and the other handmaidens — now aware of your allegiance — speak freely in front of you, though the mood is sombre and heavy. As it should be. _

_ Behind you, Elizabeth’s fingers trail over the lines of jewellery on display, searching and searching for— “Your grandmother’s bracelet, it’s—” _

_ “I gave it to him.” Through the mirror, you see Elizabeth exchange a glance with another handmaiden. “Choose another.” _

_ Her voice dies in her throat. “O...Of course, m’lady.” _

_ You’ve had this feeling in the pit of your stomach ever since you returned from Steven’s cell; this hopeless, lost feeling. A wave of foreshadowing, of  _ **_pain_ ** _ — a sensation that assures you that nothing will be the same after this afternoon, and there’s  _ **_nothing_ ** _ you can do about it. Many times you’ve lifted your hand for some reason or other, only to find that you were trembling so much that you were better off abandoning whatever task it was you were attempting. _

_ The handmaidens are… trying to continue to work as normal. But they move around you like you’re glass — almost too scared to touch you, to speak to you, to interact. It makes you feel even more alone, and not for the first time, you wish that Natalia was beside you. She always knew how to make you feel better, even when everything felt hopeless.  _

_ This situation feels monumentally  _ **_worse_ ** _ than hopeless. _

_ A flight of doves sweep past your window. _

_ _

_ Above the fireplace of your parents’ solar hangs two double-barrel shotguns. _

_ Made from deep, russet mahogany, carved with great detail and excellent craftsmanship. Fixed with shining plates of gold and patches of dark leather engraved with swirling vines and roses, the twin weapons belonged to your great, great, great grandfather — King Sirius II, the first of your family to enter royalty after overthrowing the previous king. They were your father’s pride and joy, a symbol of your lineage and power — still loaded, your father used to boast, with exactly four bullets.  _

_ As a child you would try and reach them, hopping on the tips of your toes with your fingers outstretched, hoping to reenact the great battles you’d been told of as a youngling — but you were always shooed away with naught more than a warning call of your name and a tap to your head. By time you had grown tall enough to reach them, you had also grown disinterested.  _

_ Staring at them now, you suppose there is some irony in their very existence; in their ownership. _

_ (If only you could channel the spirit of your ancestor — channel his courage and bravery, pluck a shotgun from its brackets and fight for what you believe in, but—) _

_ Steven told you not to do anything. He told you to let it happen, to let him go, to carry on his legacy alone. He said that it had to be done. That you would endanger yourself if you acted. But wasn’t that going against everything the rebellion  _ **_truly_ ** _ fought for? Weren’t his emotions clouding his own judgement, just as they often clouded yours? _

_ There is some truth to his words, you know. People are unpredictable — you could be put in danger. It’s very likely, actually. But if you do  _ **_nothing_ ** _ your people will continue to be threatened. Steven is clever, yes. Smart, yes.  _ **_Unbelievably_ ** _ powerful, yes. You trust him with your life and the lives of every Azurelean who has ever been. But this palace is your home. These people are your duty. You’ve sat aside once before. You can’t —  _ **_won’t_ ** _ — do it again. _

_ Your mother passes in front of you, dressed in the deep blue colours of the royal sigil — were it not for the fatigue in your bones, you would have jumped. It takes more strength than you’d like to admit to keep your face calm — you feel as if she can suddenly see through you, read your thoughts and ascertain your sudden change of heart.  _

_ Blinking, you steal a glance out of the window just opposite you — the sun is high in the sky. It is almost noon; in a few hours, crowds will have gathered to watch the execution of the most notorious rebel leader on the continent. And you will stop it. _

_ Pierce will be there, as well as his men. They’re unfalteringly devoted to him, and they’ll be armed and dangerous. Of course, you can’t simply storm the execution alone and expect to get anywhere, and so… You will need to sway the loyalty of the guards — which won’t be too hard. As Elizabeth had said, they fear your father. Their loyalty is borne from fright, not from respect. Once the guards are with you, you can free the rebels from the dungeons. There must be thousands of them, overstuffed into those horrid cells. It’ll take a while, but less if you gather a group of guards and even your handmaidens to help you free them. Then you can travel through the catacombs to the armoury and— _

_ “______, are you alright?” Your mother sets her teacup down, peering over at you in concern. “I… I didn’t want to say anything, but ever since you returned you’ve looked so — so down.” _

_ Oh, what a cruel understatement. You almost want to laugh, but you begin thinking instead. You need an excuse to miss the execution if you are to carry out your haphazardly-made plan without suspicion. _

_ “Forgive me. I… I’m feeling quite sickly, mother.” _

_ “Is this — is this because of the execution, my darling?” _

_ Your mouth runs dry. How much you longed to run to her like you did as a girl, sobbing into her stomach, divulging every problem and thought that was running through your head. Maybe, a more hopeful part of you thinks, she would understand — maybe she would take pity and side with you. But the idea is quickly quashed by the rest of you. _

_ “You know I’ve never had the stomach for violence,” you say. And you’re not lying — you feel as if one breath amiss might turn you inside out and upside down. You’ve been fighting the urge to get sick for the past hour. “I… I think I’d prefer to stay here, mother. Please.” _

_ Your mother hesitates. “Your father won’t be pleased.” _

_ “But he’ll understand, no?” You find yourself scuttling across the room, smoothing your dress down hurriedly as you slot yourself onto the seat beside her. Seizing her hands in yours, looking between her eyes as if trying to find something. You must look hysterical, you realise, because your mother stares at you, wide-eyed, scared. Or maybe she’s scared because she understands now that something  _ **_more_ ** _ happened during your time away. _

_ “Is there something you want to tell me?” She murmurs, her hands tightening around yours. “I… notice you aren’t wearing your grandmother’s bracelet.” _

_ “I… I lost it. I’m sorry.” You’ve never lost anything in your life. Your mother knows that, and she knows how you look when you lie, and— _

_ Her answering smile is delicate, almost pitiful, and you’re hit with the sudden suspicion that she may know more than she’s let on — especially when she cups your cheek, smoothing her thumb over your skin like she used to when you were a girl. “Of course.” … “I’ll tell your father that you’re feeling unwell.” _

_ “...Thank you, mother.” _

_ You both know that you’re thanking her for more than a quick cover-up. _

_ As soon as your mother leaves, you call your handmaidens into your parents’ solar. Elizabeth, Bethany, Mary-Jane and Dolores, who are equally befuddled when you shut the door quickly behind them and cross the room to the fireplace without explanation. It’s only when you lift one of the shotguns from the wall brackets that Mary-Jane speaks. _

_ “M’lady, what are you doing—?” _

_ The gun is heavier than you had expected — not uncomfortably so, but slightly weightier than Steven’s. The handle fits perfectly in your hand, wrapped in cold, firm leather. Mary-Jane continues to fret to herself behind you as you check the gun’s chamber, balancing the hefty weapon in your hands.  _

_ This is your legacy. Rebellion, not tyranny.  _

_ “I need your help,” you start softly, turning back to them. “I — I need to get to the dungeons to free the rebels. Before Steven’s execution.” _

_ “But — what — this is—!” _

_ “She’s gone crazy. She’s gone mad!” _

_ “M’lady, I really don’t think—” _

_ “_____,” Elizabeth murmurs, stepping forward as the others descend into some form of controlled chaos. She watches as you step back to check the gun’s aim, just as Steven had taught you. “Think about what you’re planning to do.” _

_ “I know what I’m about to do, and I’ve set my mind on it. I can’t stand aside again.” You glance between them, the girls who had done nothing but support you ever since you’d returned. You may not know them as much as you did Natalia, but you trusted them almost as much. “If you don’t want to help, I understand. It could be dangerous—” _ _   
_ _ “Don’t be a fool, princess,” Bethany interjects. Her normally gentle face sets itself into a determined cast “What do you need us to do?” _

_ _

_ You take the most clandestine hallways to the dungeons — mostly because you can’t be spotted carrying a weapon without rousing some suspicion. You stick to the servants’ passages and corridors, often slipping into empty rooms to avoid company.  _

_ Now that you’re on your way to doing what needs to be done, it’s like all of your anxieties have melted away. Your hands don’t shake, your breaths don’t come laboured — you have been replaced with some hard, assured woman who knows what needs to be done. And although your heart pounds with every close call and your hands find themselves readjusting their grip on your gun over and over, you find solace in the certainty that no matter what happens today, at least you will have tried. At least you will have inspired someone — a little girl, an old maiden, a weary guard — to continue what you’ve started. What Steven had started, all those years ago. _

_ The entrance to the dungeons approaches quickly; a long, broad corridor with no windows, dimly lit with torches. At the end, a set of tall iron wrought gates, bound shut with five locks exactly. A single bored-looking guard stands watch, with at least 50 more dispersed within the expansive dungeons themselves.  _

_ It’s only when the guard looks up that the first seed of doubt plants itself in your mind — what if you had underestimated the guards’ allegiance? What if, instead of hearing you out, he simply shot? Bound your wrists for treason? _

_ “Your Highness…?” _

_ You come to a stop before him. “I need access to the dungeons, please.” _

_ His eyes, past the metal of his helmet, drift to the four women behind you — then, almost comically, to the gun in your hands. “My apologies, m’lady, but I can’t possibly—” _

_ “Open the gate.” And after a moment’s pause: “Please.” _

_ “I — I have orders from the King,” he replies, hand edging hesitantly towards his weapon. He looks completely and utterly torn, unsure of whether pointing a gun at his Princess could be considered treason if she was acting against the King. “Nobody’s allowed past this point, m’lady.” _

_ “Her Highness is ordering you,” Dolores interjects from behind you, but you quickly hold up a hand.  _

_ “If you want the end of the rebellion to come about — if you stand on the side of my father, the oppressor — then remain by your post.” His mouth stands agape at your words — a complete declaration of treason. “But I don’t believe you will. Never in my life have I met an Azurelean guard who is deliberately unjust. Scared, maybe. Kept in the dark, fearful of retaliation — but not unethical.” _

_ “I — I —” _

_ “My father won’t be able to hurt you,” you promise, taking a step forward. You place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I give you my word — but if you act against me, he will continue to hurt the people of this kingdom. And I can’t allow that to happen anymore.” _

_ Maybe this was the true test of faith all along. Your entire cause now rested on the shoulders of this young soldier — a man who probably never even wanted to enter this life, but had to in order to provide for his family. A man trained from a boy to serve and uphold the dictatorship he had little to no idea existed. _

_ “I don’t want to hurt you,” you continue softly. “But I will if I have to.” You won’t shoot him, no; but you know a good hit to the head will render even the strongest man unconscious. _

_ Luckily, you don’t have to — the man, after a few seconds of deliberation, nods his head, and steps aside to slot in the heavy iron key. When he turns it, it resonates throughout the hallways with a loud snap! — so loud that you almost jump, yourself. It seems you weren’t quite as lionhearted as you had thought.  _

_ “Thank you,” you say sincerely. “I won’t forget your assistance, dear soldier.” _

_ “Thank you, Your Highness.” He stays at his post as you and your handmaidens pass through the formidable gates — and just as you’re about to disappear around the corner, he clears his throat. “I — I’m glad that it’s you. That you’re the one to do this. We trust you.” _

_ For a moment you don’t answer. It’s strange, thinking that after everything you still hold the trust of your people close. You never lost it, no matter how many nightmares had plagued you, no matter how long you had remained ignorant, nothing. You were still their princess.  _

_ You bow your head. “I… I only hope I can live up to be the queen you and the rest of the kingdom deserve.” _

_ And with that, the darkness of the dungeons consumes you. That heavy stillness hasn’t changed; still presses down on your shoulders with each step, still forces your lungs to heave with the effort of holding your breath. But you realise quite quickly that the menacing aura of the dungeons is nothing but a figment of your imagination — if anything, it’s just sad, because while you realise that there must be some imprisoned for good reason, a majority of them were incarcerated for speaking against the crown. _

_ The first guard you happen upon jolts at the sight of you — you send him off to spread the word of the rebels’ emancipation, as well as a plan to meet at the southernmost stairwell. The second and third and fourth are sent off to do the same thing. The fifth guard you meet stands to attention, hand seemingly glued to his forehead in salute, and it’s clear that he’s not very often out of the dungeons; his skin is pale and almost sickly from a lack of sunlight, and he sways dangerously on his feet.  _

_ “You need to rest,” you tell him as your handmaidens begin to unlock cell doors. “You’re not in fighting condition.” _

_ “It — it is my duty to — to protect you, Your Highness—” _

_ “And you can’t if you can barely balance yourself upright,” you reply gently. “You’ve done your job, good sir. Rest — but first, I need directions. Have you seen a woman amongst these rebels, pale skin, bright red hair? Or, perhaps the Captain’s advisors...” _

_ “Advisors,” he mutters to himself, as if to rouse the memory. “Advisors… D-down this corridor, two right turns and… take the second corridor on the left. The cells there have been reserved for them.” _

_ “Thank you,” you say earnestly. “Thank you.” _

_ And you take off down the corridor, as explained, your shoes slapping against the cold stone floors — then, two right turns into another passageway, dimly lit and so thin that your shoulders brush off the walls. From there, the passage widens again, only slit-like windows allowing light in. The hallways echo with noise and life, no longer unnervingly still; voices carrying from all directions, yells and hollers of joy in the rush to rendezvous at the stairwell. You finally come to your crossroads: three doorways on the left, three doorways on the right. You don’t hesitate — you slip through the second on the left, and— _

_ “Halt!” _

_ You’ve been through this so many times that you don’t even bother stopping. You charge towards the guard, your bayonet loose in your hands. “The keys, please.” _

_ “Princess, I’m forbidden—” _

_ “I am your princess,” you interrupt. You can’t help but feel a tad impatient, glancing at the unassuming iron doors that line the hallways. Just beyond them, your friends. “And I am releasing these rebels. All I ask is that you help me in overthrowing my father.” _

_ You hold out your hand, expectant. The guard’s hand shakes over his ring of keys, unsure, but not scared. “The keys. Please.” _

_ And they’re dropped into the palm of your hands, cool and inorganic, a ring of about six identical rings. Your face softens. “The rest are gathering at the southernmost stairwell. They’ll explain the rest.” _

_ He leaves just as quickly as the rest did, and as you fumble with the keys and move for the first door, you’re suddenly hit with the fact that your plan had worked. Ill-prepared and hasty, but it had worked, all because of some kindness and a little loyalty, and now there’s hope— _

_ “____?” This cell is — you squint through darkness — Anthony’s. “____! What are you doing here—?” _ _   
_ _ “I’m getting you out,” you say hurriedly, swinging his door open. “We’re going to save Steven! Quickly, up!”  _

_ Your voice begins to rouse the others from their thoughts, from their sleep, from whatever it was that they had used to preoccupy themselves — you hear James next, his hands thumping against his door— “_____? Princess! Quick, let me out!” _

_ You don’t have the time or energy to tell him that shouting at you won’t make the door unlock any faster — you simply rush over, jamming the key in and twisting as quickly as you can. You don’t stop; you move onto the next door immediately, and then the next, and the next, and the next, and the next. And when the last door opens, you turn to look at those who had emerged. They’re pale and clearly underfed, dark circles under their eyes, busted lips and bruised cheeks.  _ _ James, Samuel, Anthony, Clinton, Thor, Rhodey, Natalia — even Banner, standing unsurely at the doorway of his cell. _

_ “It’s good to see you,” greets Natalia, her eyes glassy as she captures you in a hug. “I almost thought you weren’t coming.” _

_ “Had half a mind to,” you manage to joke, and there’s a lump in your throat that you have to swallow down. You turn to look at the rest, still keeping hold of Natalia’s hand.  _ _ “Steven is... to be executed at noon. I’ve released the rest of the men — they’re reconvening at the southern stairwell. From there, we’ll make our way to the royal armoury, and… well… I haven’t thought much after that. The execution is taking place in the throne room.” _

_ “We’ll have to hurry, then,” Natalia says, tugging you along. “Sun’s almost overhead.” _

_ “Thank you,” Anthony adds breathlessly as they begin to hurry along beside you. “We won’t forget this.” _

_ “We’ll have time for thank you’s later,” says someone — you don’t bother turning to see who exactly, too preoccupied with retracing your footsteps and remaking a path towards the stairwell. You follow the sound of voices, too, the steady din of chatter rumbling through each corridor. It’s not too hard to find out where the entire rebellion has gathered — especially since, due to the cause’s large size, people are spilling out into the hallways that radiate out from it, soldiers and rebels alike. You simply follow the stragglers, until the halls are so dense with bodies that it feels like you can barely breathe— _

_ But then somebody catches sight of you — and then suddenly there’s a hush falling over the previous bustle like a sheet of snow, and the men begin straight down the middle, pressing themselves against the walls so that you and the generals may pass. You find yourself glancing at the faces as you progress past them, finding your own courage in the respect and gratitude painted on each visage — and at the end of the path, your handmaidens.  _

_ (And — if it hadn’t already — it suddenly occurs to you that this is it. There’s no turning back, no changing of the mind. You have made your decisions and taken your sides, and there’s no doubt in you that you have made the right decision.) _

_ You realise that they’re waiting for you to say something; looking up to you, awaiting your words. That had been Steven’s job, before — to encourage his troops, instill that unwavering loyalty in them. Now the metaphorical baton has been passed to you, and — swallowing the dryness in your throat — you step forward. _

_ “I expect you’re waiting for me to say something,” you call first, hesitant. “I… I must admit I haven’t much experience with this, and time is steadily escaping us. All I can tell you is the truth — we were betrayed by Alexander Pierce, and your captain is to be executed for treason.” _

_ Murmurs ripple throughout the crowd, but you power on. “I won’t let that happen. We won’t let that happen. Not after everything he’s sacrificed for the greater good of this kingdom.”  _

_ You shift your rifle in your hands, casting an unsure glance back at the generals — you get a series of encouraging nods, and you turn back to the men. “Some of you are soldiers. Some are rebels. Some are farmers and tradesmen simply fighting for a good cause. But we’re all here because we want better for this kingdom — so we’re going to get to the armoury, storm the throne room, and we are going to save the Captain. Is that clear?” _

_ And the response is — is like a roar. So loud that your ears ring for a few seconds after, but you’re beaming at the sound, even as Rhodey and Clinton begin to lead the men into the tunnels with the help of your handmaidens. _

_ _

_ They’ve all gathered in the throne room to watch him get his head chopped off — nobles, highborn, all congregated and murmuring between themselves. The room itself is a marvel of architecture and grandeur — if he wasn’t about to be executed he might have stared. As it is, though, he is about to be executed; dragged from the dungeons by two guards in the early morning, when dawn had barely broken, and placed in a new cell. A cell barely big enough to hold him, really, hidden behind a clandestine door in the side of the throne room. They left him there to stew in his thoughts, and most of those thoughts were… were of you.  _

_ He mourned his family, of course. His Samuel and Anthony and James and Natalia and Clinton and Rhodey — mourned how they had followed him into a fight that had slipped through his fingers. They had known the risks, of course — so did he, but still. He mulled over the life he could have had if he had just — if he had just been more critical of Pierce. The happy ending that had been just close enough to touch— _

_ His fingers had trailed over the diamonds of your bracelet, heated by the warmth of his skin. He remembered his promise to dance with you at your wedding — fast-paced and giddy, spinning you round and round the way he had at the bonfire. You’d been so luminous then, glowing with light and happiness, dizzy off love and that lightheartedness that had been taken from you. If he’d… if he’d just been more careful— _

_ “I will afford you your last words,” the King says easily, tearing him from his thoughts. The monarch sits, reclining back on his throne, the picture of effortlessness — he wouldn’t even have to move to see Steven die. It puts a bitterness in his mouth. “Speak, treasoner.” _

_ The trial itself had lasted all of five minutes. They’d called his name and kneeled him before the block of wood that had been brought in from outside — the block of wood that would help keep his head stable when the axe flew — and then they’d listed his crimes: murder, thievery, treason, and another few that completely went in one ear and out the other. There’d been a minute long deliberation by the jury — a jury composed of the King’s advisors, of course — before the sentencing was finalized. _

_ Now, looking up at the king lounging in front of him, it hasn’t quite settled in. His death is imminent. He’ll cease to exist, and the world will go on and on and on and on — the earth will spin, the sun will shine, there’ll be kings and queens and wars and peace treaties. _

_ He can only hope that he made a difference in the short time that he was alive. _

_ Last words. Last words... _

_ He’d hoped that his last words would come years from now, old and grey and laying on his deathbed with you and your children beside him. His last words would be ‘I love you’, and he would drift off into that endless sleep, at peace with the world — and for that simple reason, he considers saying nothing. He won’t get the end he wants, and so they won’t get the performance they want— _

_ But... _

_...But the circumstances are bitter and unfair, and he is angry — he is angry and enraged and furious that good did not win. That his men will die and the rebellion will fizzle out with them until another brave soul takes their place. _

_ (But you will live. You, the last light of the rebellion.) _

_ “Long live the revolution!” Steven bellows — listens to it echo eerily up to the high ceiling and out to the hallway and out the windows, till it takes on such a sonorous quality that it sounds as if someone speaks down to them. The crowd shifts and shuffles, discomfited. _

_ The King’s lip curls. “Very well. By order of the crown, Steven Grant Rogers, I hereby sentence you to be executed for your crimes. Effective immediately.” _

_ He’s already at the chopping block. How convenient, he thinks wryly, peering over at the masked axe-towing man who would sever his head from his shoulders. He refuses to shut his eyes — stares right out at the crowd of nobles as the executioner positions himself behind him. Searching for a familiar pair of eyes, a soft pair of lips, a saccharine smile that never fails to lift his spirits. _

_ You’re not here. That’s good. He doesn’t want you to see — although he is embittered to think that his last sight will be the King and his corrupt court.  _

_ And the King raises his hand. _

_ The executioner lifts the axe.  _

_ Steven grits his teeth.  _

_ The crowd stills, all bated breath and horror and satisfaction, really, satisfaction to see the end of an era before their very eyes— _

_ Bang! _

_ Is that what being beheaded sounds like? _

_ The crowd goes dead quiet — and then, screaming. Panicked, breathless screaming— _

_ Steven opens his eyes, and fuck— _

_ You’re standing there, rifle in your arms, still poised towards the spot where the executioner once stood. Blood splattered all over the perfect marble floors and across the fabric of your pretty yellow dress, eyes hard with defiance.  _

_ Your father’s face is the picture of horror. Your mother has gone a deathly shade of grey. The guards are frozen in shock.  _

_ “Put down the gun,” booms your father. “Now, you foolish girl!” _

_ “I’ve had enough of your orders.” You inhale, shaky, but your hands are steady. “I have had enough of you poisoning this kingdom and its people!” _

_ “Don’t make me repeat myself,” the king hisses. “Or I’ll—” _

_ “You’ll what? Send them to kill me, like you ordered before?” A wave of whispers erupts from the crowd, and you smile. “Oh, now that wasn’t common knowledge, was it? The assassin you sent to choke me to death — an assassin you had disguised as a rebel for years? And I wager these highborn folk have no clue of what’s actually happening outside the city either.” _

_ “Guards!” _

_ But not one guard moves — and Steven realises that the mass of people behind you aren’t highborn, they’re rebels. Rebels and guards who’ve torn the royal sigil from the patch on their biceps. He can’t see much, with his arms tied behind him and his chin pressed to the chopping block, but he knows in his heart of hearts that the rest of his family are in that crowd. _

_ “They’re loyal to you because you pay them,” you say. A victorious smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Not because you instill loyalty, or trust, but because without your pay, their families would fall to the same fate as all others outside the city — death by starvation, or disease, or—” _

_ “Your head has been filled by lies—” _

_ “I have seen it,” you announce, turning to the crowd. Your father’s brow trembles at your audacity to turn from him while he’s still speaking, but you continue on without even a glance in his direction. Steven beams. “Whole villages burned down by Azurealean soldiers on orders from my father. Starving children with only rags for clothes during winter. People forced to survive off broth and nothing but broth. The people of our kingdom are suffering and we have enabled it. It will only continue with my father on the throne.” _

_ “Ah, I see this for what it is,” the king chuckles. “A bid for the throne. Accuse the king of oppressing his people and steal the power right from under his nose. I won’t let you take my throne. You are naive, and ignorant, and—” _

_ You only raise the rifle again, jaw set. “This rifle was once used by my grandfather to overpower a king like you. Don’t make me use it once more.” _

_ In that moment, it’s pride that blooms in Steven’s chest. Fierce and fiery and enough to ease the tension and anxiety in his stomach, only growing ever-stronger when your eyes flicker momentarily to his. He can see the relief hidden there, the adrenaline that comes from any close call — and this, he thinks, glancing down at the still body of the executioner, was a  _ **_very_ ** _ close call. _

_ “I’m giving you a chance to surrender,” you continue, and he’s surprised to see the desperation in your eyes — but this is your father. Some part of you must think that he’s still redeemable. Even Steven waits with bated breath, awaiting your father’s answer, wondering if he really has the capacity to turn his back on his own tyranny, but— _

_ “You’ll raze this kingdom,” your father only warns. His voice trembles with restrained anger, and your shoulders slump as you realise that the surrender you’d hoped for wasn’t coming. A reluctant sense of acceptance comes to paint your face. _

_ “Restrain them,” you demand, then, only turning away from your father at the last second. “All of them.” _

“And then what happened?”

Your voice comes to a halt, and Steven sees you cast a look over to where Margaret sits, practically  _ thrumming _ with energy. The little girl — only 6 name days old — has heard this story  _ time _ and  _ time _ again. She begs for it at bedtime, asks about it at breakfast, tells her tutors about it when she  _ should  _ be learning. She knows every detail and every event, and very often chirps up to remind you of points you’d forgotten — and still, without fail, you tell her the story  _ every  _ other evening. Steven wouldn’t have it any other way — he thinks, secretly, you enjoy telling it as much as she enjoys hearing it.

“You know this story, little one,” you tease her gently — but you slip from your place on the chippendale sofa to join her in front of the fireplace, letting her climb into your lap. You still haven’t taken any notice of him — he wasn’t supposed to be off duty until midnight, and the clock has barely struck eight. He resigns himself to leaning against the doorframe, a fond smile on his face. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“ _ Well— _ ” Margaret takes a great, heaving sigh, wracking her brains— “You freed papa first, and then — and then you locked grandpapa in the dungeons, and you became queen… and then grandmama married you and papa, and you danced at your wedding, and then you had me!”

It’s such a  _ simple _ timeline, but it does the job quite well. She didn’t quite know yet about the night terrors that plagued you after taking the life of the executioner, or your mother’s initial refusal to believe your father’s depravity — didn’t  _ quite  _ understand your father’s execution or the redistribution of highborn lands to lowborn citizens, or the large-scale farming efforts that reduced famine and heightened the standard of living exponentially within months. She’d come to know, as she grew. The history of Azureal would be one of the most important subjects for the future queen, after all.

“This story again?” Steve finally interrupts, beaming when Margaret gives a gasp and scrambles to her feet to reach him. You watch with a small grin of your own as she scampers to her father, practically  _ leaping _ into his arms.

“Papa!”

“My little princess!” Despite the fact that he’s been in and out of council meetings all day, training new soldiers and discussing the reformation of the Azurealean army without break, he still finds the strength in him to scoop her up easily. She’s wearing her nightie and her hair is freshly washed and she smells like lemon soap, his little princess. “Look at you, always so pretty.”

“It’s because I look like mama!” 

“And here I thought you took after me,” he says offhandedly — quietens down just the slightest bit as you approach. You still do that to him, he finds, even 6 years later: he’s still rendered speechless by you, by your beauty, by your grace, by the affectionate smile you send him before you kiss him. He can’t help the soft sigh that leaves his lips when you pull back, one of your hands on Margaret’s cheek and the other on his. “My queen, my love, the light of—”

_ “Papa.” _

“Alright, alright.”

“My king,” said with a hint of surprise, “You’re back early.”

“Mm. I wanted to see my girls.” 

“Well,  _ one _ of your girls is off to bed,” you say, shooting Margaret a warning look. “Or at least she  _ promised _ to if I told her a story.”

“But I want to be with papa,” Margaret whines, pouting her lips. She really  _ does _ take after you, Steven thinks — and just like you, she’s wont to get her way with naught more than a simple pout and a flutter of her lashes, especially when she’s cuddling into him the way she is. “I don’t want to sleep.”

“But papa is tired, and you’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow, won’t you?”

_ You  _ watch, this time, as he heads towards her bedroom, easily convincing her to slip under the covers and try to sleep — his murmurs are soft and loving, barely distinguishable as you watch from afar. He’s always praised you for the refined way you’ve navigated both motherhood and your ascension to the throne, but now, watching him talk so tenderly and quietly with his daughter, his royal mantle still clasped onto his shoulders, you can only think the same for him.

Who would’ve thought that the fearsome Captain all those years ago — the one who’d chased you through the trees on the back of his horse, the one who’d lugged you onto the back of his steed — would sing lullabies for his daughter? That he would start each day with a kiss to your forehead, that he would stand his daughter on his toes to dance around your quarters? Through the fighting and the conflict and the unsureness of everything — it’s given you this. A family of your own.

You remember the feeling of the rifle in your hands, the perspiration that had dotted your forehead as you stood down your father, the sheer  _ relief  _ you’d felt when your eyes met Steven’s in the throne room.  _ All the pain and the suffering and the fear. The betrayal and the sadness, the reluctance and discomfort — all of it has given you this.  _

A life of comfort and security, of love and trust and understanding. Where duty to your kingdom and duty to the man you love don’t clash, but intersect.

“She’s off,” Steven whispers, shutting your little princess’s door quietly behind him. He immediately reaches for you, his lips pressing hard to your forehead, his hand crowding the back of your neck. “All is well, dove.”

_ All is well.  _ Your eyes find the same two rifles hanging above your own fireplace — loaded with three bullets, now, instead of four.

All is well.


End file.
